liOHF.MIAN."     By 
W.  SERVICE.     Barse  &  Hopki 

i .  erti'cd  on  the  jacket, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  present  volume  ••-. 
will  add  to  the  author's  reputation,  unless  it 
be,  perhaps,  "The  Twa  Jocks,"  include; 
Book  IV,  Part  II.  In  the  war  verse,  which 
all  odds  the  best  of  the  present  col- 
lection, Mr.  Service  has  given  us  some 
robustious  ballads,  but  not  nearly  enough  of 
them  to  balance  the  first  164  pages,  which 
are  divided  under  the  heads  of  "Spring." 
!y  Summer,"  and  ''Late  Summer." 
Also,  there  is  an  innovation  in  the  shape  of 
prose  interludes,  which,  while  not  always 
happy  and  frequently  naive  to  the  point  of 
exasperation,  at  times  gives  evidence  of  a 
poetic  quality  which  is  foreign  to  the  metre. 
On  pages  34  and  35,  however,  the  author 
achieves  a  certain  almost  lyrical  spontaneity 

which    moves    with    the    form   of   poesy,    at 
least,  as: 

I  think  the  moon  must  be  to  blame: 
It  fills  the  room  with  fairy  fame; 
It  pain's  the  wall,  it  seems  to  pour 
f  dappled  food  upon  the  floor. 
I  rise  and  through  the  v:\ndovi  stare.   .   .  < 
And   again: 

The   little   lisping    leaves   of  spring 
Like  seqtti::s   softly  glimmering. 
For  the  rest,  several  excellent  short  stories 
might   have   been   made   from   the   verses   in 
Parts    I    and    II.      ''Lucille,"    written    in    his 
earlier  vein,  is  whimsically  amusing;  "Julot 
the   Apache"   has    a  certain   rhythm    and    an 
occasional   striking  and    unusual  metaphor — 
but  as  a  whole  the  book  is  a  disappointment, 
judged  purely  as   poetry. 


BALLADS 
OF  A  BOHEMIAN 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

Author  of  "The  Spell  of  the  Yukon,"  "Ballads 

of  a  Cheechako,"  "Rhymes  of  a 

Red  Cross  Man,"  etc. 


PUBLISHERS 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

NEW  YORK          NEWARK,  N.  J. 


Copyright,  1921, 

by 
BARSE   &   HOPKINS 


All  Rights  Reserved 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
PRELUDE II 

BOOK  ONE 

SPRING 

I 

MY   GARRET        .......' 17 

JULOT  THE    APACHE 19 

II 

L'ESCARGOT  D'OR 25 

IT  IS  LATER  THAN  YOU  THINK 2J 

NOCTAMBULE 3O 

III 

INSOMNIA 33 

MOON    SONG 36 

THE    SEWING-GIRL 38 

IV 

LUCILLE 41 

OX   THE    BOULEVARD 47 

FACILITY 51 

V 

GOLDEN   DAYS 52 

THE    JOY   OF   LITTLE   THINGS 53 

THE   ABSINTHE   DRINKERS 55 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

BOOK  TWO 
EARLY  SUMMER 

I  PAGE 

THE   RELEASE ^5 

THE   WEE   SHOP 

THE    PHILISTINE  AND  THE   BOHEMIAN 7° 

II 

THE  BOHEMIAN  DREAMS 73 

A   DOMESTIC   TRAGEDY         .  •  7& 

THE    PENCIL   SELLER    .  77 

III 

FI-FI   IN    BED 83 

GODS   IN   THE   GUTTER        ...  ....  84 

THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO    ...  ....  85 

IV 

THE   BOHEMIAN 92 

THE   AUCTION    SALE 94 

THE    JOY   OF    BEING   POOR 97 

V 

MY  NEIGHBORS IOI 

ROOM    4:   THE   PAINTER   CHAP IOI 

ROOM    6:   THE    LITTLE   WORKGIRL IO4 

ROOM    5:    THE    CONCERT   SINGER IO6 

ROOM    7:   THE   COCO-FIEND IO8 

BOOK  THREE 

LATE  SUMMER 

I 

THE    PHILANDERER 117 

THE    PETIT   VIEUX        .  IIQ 

MY   MASTERPIECE  .     I2O 


CONTENTS  9 

PAGE 

MY    BOOK 121 

MY    HOUR 123 

II 

A   SONG   OF    SIXTY-FIVE 127 

TEDDY    BEAR ISO 

THE   OUTLAW 132 

THE   WALKERS 134 

III 

POOR  PETER 137 

THE  WISTFUL  ONE 138 

IF   YOU   HAD  A  FRIEND 139 

THE    CONTENTED    MAN 14! 

THE   SPIRIT   OF   THE   UNBORN    BABE 142 

IV 

FINISTERE 146 

OLD  DAVID   SMAIL 148 

THE   WONDERER 150 

OH,    IT  IS   GOOD 153 

V 

I   HAVE   SOME   FRIENDS 155 

THE    QUEST 156 

THE   COMFORTER 158 

THE    OTHER   ONE 158 

CATASTROPHE l6l 

BOOK  FOUR 

WINTER 

I 

PRISCILLA 167 

A   CASUALTY 171 

THE    BLOOD-RED    FOURRAGERE 173 

JIM 176 


io  CONTENTS 

I I  PAGE 

KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION 178 

THE    THREE   TOMMIES 1 82 

THE   TWA   JOCKS 185 

III 

HIS    BOYS l88 

THE    BOOBY-TRAP IQ2 

BONEHEAD   BILL 194 

IV 

A  LAPSE  OF  TIME  AND  A  WORD  OF  EXPLANATION     .        .197 

MICHAEL ig8 

THE  WIFE 2OO 

VICTORY   STUFF .        .    2O3 

WAS  IT  YOU? 2O4 

V 

LES   GRANDS   MUTILES 2O6 

THE    SIGHTLESS   MAN 2O7 

THE    LEGLESS    MAN 2IO 

THE    FACELESS   MAN 214 


L'ENVOI 


219 


PRELUDE 

Alas!  upon  some  starry  height, 
The  Gods  of  Excellence  to  please, 
This  hand  of  mine  will  never  smite 
The  Harp  of  High  Serenities. 
Mere  minstrel  of  the  street  am  I, 
To  whom  a  careless  coin  you  fling; 
But  who,  beneath  the  bitter  sky, 
Blue-lipped,  yet  insolent  of  eye, 
Can  shrill  a  song  of  Spring; 
A  song  of  merry  mansard  days, 
The  cheery  chimney-tops  among; 
Of  rolics  and  of  roundelays 

When  we  were  young  .  .  .  when  we  were  young; 
A  song  of  love  and  lilac  nights, 
Of  wit,  of  wisdom  and  of  wine; 
Of  Folly  whirling  on  the  Heights, 
Of  hunger  and  of  hope  divine; 
Of  Blanche,  Suzette  and  Celestine, 
And  all  that  gay  and  tender  band 
Who  shared  with  us  the  fat,  the  lean, 
The  hazard  of  Illusion-land; 
When  scores  of  Philistines  we  slew 
As  mightily  with  brush  and  pen 
We  sought  to  make  the  world  anew, 
And  scorned  the  gods  of  other  men; 
When  we  were  fools  divinely  wise, 

ir 


12  PRELUDE 

Who  held  it  rapturous  to  strive; 
When  Art  was  sacred  in  our  eyes, 
And  it  was  Heav'n  to  be  alive.  .  .  . 

O  days  of  glamor,  glory,  truth, 

To  you  to-night  I  raise  my  glass; 

O  freehold  of  immortal  youth, 

Bohemia,  the  lost,  alas! 

O  laughing  lads  who  led  the  romp, 

Respectable  you've  grown,  I'm  told; 

Your  heads  you  bow  to  power  and  pomp, 

You've  learned  to  know  the  worth  of  gold. 

O  merry  maids  who  shared  our  cheer, 

Your  eyes  are  dim,  your  locks  are  gray; 

And  as  you  scrub  I  sadly  fear 

Your  daughters  speed  the  dance  to-day. 

O  windmill  land  and  crescent  moon! 

O  Columbine  and  Pierrette! 

To  you  my  old  guitar  I  tune 

Ere  I  forget,  ere  I  forget.   .  .  . 

So  come,  good  men  who  toil  and  tire, 
Who  smoke  and  sip  the  kindly  cup, 
Ring  round  about  the  tavern  fire 
Ere  yet  you  drink  your  liquor  up; 
And  hear  my  simple  songs  of  earth, 
Of  youth  and  truth  and  living  things; 
Of  poverty  and  proper  mirth, 
Of  rags  and  rich  imaginings; 
Of  cock-a-hoop,  blue-he avened  days, 
Of  hearts  elate  and  eager  breath, 


PRELUDE  13 

Of  wonder,  worship,  pity,  praise, 

Of  sorrow,  sacrifice  and  death; 

Of  lusting,  laughter,  passion,  pain, 

Of  lights  that  lure  and  dreams  that  thrall  .   .  . 

And  if  a  golden  word  I  gain, 

Oh,  kindly  folks,  God  save  you  all! 

And  if  you  shake  your  heads  in  blame  .  .  . 

Good  friends,  God  love  you  all  the  same. 


BOOK  ONE 
SPRING 


MONTPARNASSE, 

April  1914. 

All  day  the  sun  has  shone  into  my  little  attic,  a  bitter  sun- 
shine that  brightened  yet  did  not  warm.  And  so  as  I  toiled 
and  toiled  doggedly  enough,  many  were  the  looks  I  cast  at 
the  three  faggots  I  had  saved  to  cook  my  evening  meal. 
Now,  however,  my  supper  is  over,  my  pipe  alight,  and  as  I 
stretch  my  legs  before  the  embers  I  have  at  last  a  glow  of 
comfort,  a  glimpse  of  peace. 

MY  GARRET 

Here  is  my  Garret  up  five  flights  of  stairs; 
Here's  where  I  deal  in  dreams  and  ply  in  fancies, 
Here  is  the  wonder-shop  of  all  my  wares, 
My  sounding  sonnets  and  my  red  romances. 
Here's  where  I  challenge  Fate  and  ring  my  rhymes, 
And  grope  at  glory  —  aye,  and  starve  at  times. 

Here  is  my  Stronghold:  stout  of  heart  am  I, 
Greeting  each  dawn  as  songful  as  a  linnet; 
And  when  at  night  on  yon  poor  bed  I  lie 
(Blessing  the  world  and  every  soul  that's  in  it), 
Here's  where  I  thank  the  Lord  no  shadow  bars 
My  skylight's  vision  of  the  valiant  stars. 

17 


1 8  MY  GARRET 

Here  is  my  Palace  tapestried  with  dreams. 

Ah!  though  to-night  ten  sous  are  all  my  treasure, 

While  in  my  gaze  immortal  beauty  gleams, 

Am  I  not  dowered  with  wealth  beyond  all  measure? 

Though  in  my  ragged  coat  my  songs  I  sing, 

King  of  my  soul,  I  envy  not  the  king. 

Here  is  my  Haven:  it's  so  quiet  here; 
Only  the  scratch  of  pen,  the  candle's  flutter; 
Shabby  and  bare  and  small,  but  O  how  dear ! 
Mark  you  —  my  table  with  my  work  a-clutter, 
My  shelf  of  tattered  books  along  the  wall, 
My  bed,  my  broken  chair  —  that's  nearly  all. 

Only  four  faded  walls,  yet  mine,  all  mine. 
Oh,  you  fine  folks,  a  pauper  scorns  your  pity. 
Look,  where  above  me  stars  of  rapture  shine; 
See,  where  below  me  gleams  the  siren  city  .  .  . 
Am  I  not  rich?  —  a  millionaire  no  less, 
If  wealth  be  told  in  terms  of  Happiness. 

Ten  sous.  ...  I  think  one  can  sing  best  of  poverty  when 
one  is  holding  it  at  arm's  length.  I'm  sure  that  when  I 
wrote  these  lines,  fortune  had  for  a  moment  tweaked  me  by 
the  nose.  To-night,  however,  I  am  truly  down  to  ten  sous. 
It  is  for  that  I  have  stayed  in  my  room  all  day,  rolled  in 
my  blankets  and  clutching  my  pen  with  clammy  fingers. 
I  must  work,  work,  work.  I  must  finish  my  book  before 
poverty  crushes  me.  I  am  not  only  writing  for  my  living 
but  for  my  life.  Even  to-day  my  Muse  was  mutinous.  For 
hours  and  hours  anxiously  I  stared  at  a  paper  that  was  blank ; 


JULOT  THE  APACHE  19 

nervously  I  paced  up  and  down  my  garret;  bitterly  I  flung 
myself  on  my  bed.  Then  suddenly  it  all  came.  Line  after 
line  I  wrote  with  hardly  a  halt.  So  I  made  another  of  my 
Ballads  of  the  Boulevards.  Here  it  is: 


JULOT  THE  APACHE 

YouVe  heard  of  Julot  the  apache,  and  Gigolette,  his 

mome.  .  .  . 
Montmartre  was  their  hunting-ground,  but  Belville 

was  their  home. 
A  little  chap  just  like   a  boy,  with   smudgy  black 

mustache, — 

Yet  there  was  nothing  juvenile  in  Julot  the  apache. 
From  head  to  heel  as  tough  as  steel,  as  nimble  as 

a  cat, 
With  every  trick  of  twist   and  kick,   a  master  of 

savate. 

And  Gigolette  was  tall  and  fair,  as. stupid  as  a  cow, 
With  three  combs  in  the  greasy  hair  she  banged 

upon  her  brow. 

You'd  see  her  on  the  Place  Pigalle  on  any  afternoon, 
A  primitive  and  strapping  wench  as  brazen  as  the 

moon. 
And  yet  there  is  a  tale  that's  told  of  Clichy  after 

dark, 
And  two  gendarmes  who   swung  their   arms   with 

Julot  for  a  mark. 
And  oh,  but  they'd  have  got  him  too;  they  banged 

and  blazed  away, 


20  JULOT  THE  APACHE 

When  like  a  flash  a  woman  leapt  between  them  and 

their  prey. 
She   took  the  medicine  meant   for  him;  she   came 

down  with  a  crash  .  .  . 
"  Quick  now,  and  make  your  get-away,  O  Julot  the 

apache!  "... 
But  no!     He   turned,   ran   swiftly  back,   his   arms 

around  her  met; 
They  nabbed  him  sobbing  like  a  kid,   and  kissing 

Gigolette. 

Now  I'm  a  reckless  painter  chap  who  loves  a  jam- 
boree, 

And  one  night  in  Cyrano's  bar  I  got  upon  a  spree; 
And  there  were  trollops  all  about,  and  crooks  of 

every  kind, 
But  though  the  place  was   reeling   round   I   didn't 

seem  to  mind. 
Till  down  I  sank,  and  all  was  blank  when  in  the 

bleary  dawn 

I  woke  up  in  my  studio  to  find  —  my  money  gone ; 
Three  hundred  francs  I'd  scraped  and  squeezed  to 

pay  my  quarter's  rent. 
"Some  one  has  pinched  my  wad,"   I  wailed;   "it 

never  has  been  spent." 
And  as  I  racked  my  brains  to  seek  how  I  could  raise 

some  more, 
Before  my  cruel  landlord  kicked  me  cowering  from 

the  door: 
A  knock  ..."  Come  in,"  I  gruffly  groaned;  I  did 

not  raise  my  head, 


JULOT  THE  APACHE  21 

Then  lo!  I  heard  a  husky  voice,  a  swift  and  silky 

tread : 
'  You  got  so  blind,  last  night,  mon  vieux,  I  collared 

all  your  cash  — 
Three     hundred     francs.   .  .   .  There !     Nom     de 

Dieu,"  said  Julot  the  apache. 

And  that  was  how  I  came  to  know  Julot  and  Gigo- 

lette, 
And  we  would  talk  and  drink  a  bock,  and  smoke  a 

cigarette. 

And  I  would  meditate  upon  the  artistry  of  crime, 
And  he  would  tell  of  cracking  cribs  and  cops  and 

doing  time; 
Or  else  when  he  was  flush  of  funds  he'd  carelessly 

explain 
He'd  biffed  some  bloated  bourgeois  on  the  border  of 

the  Seine. 

So  gentle  aijd  polite  he  was,  just  like  a  man  of  peace, 
And  not  a  desperado  and  the  terror  of  the  police. 

Now  one  day  in  a  bistro  that's  behind  the   Place 

Vendome 
I    came    on   Julot    the    apache,    and    Gigolette    his 

mome. 
And  as  they  looked  so  very  grave,  says  I  to  them, 

says  I, 
"  Come  on  and  have  a  little  glass,  it's  good  to  rinse 

the  eye. 
You  both  look  mighty  serious;  you've  something  on 

the  heart." 


22  JULOT  THE  APACHE 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Julot  the  apache,  "  we've  some- 
thing to  impart. 

When  such  things  come  to  folks  like  us,  it  isn't  very 
gay  ... 

It's  Gigolette  —  she  tells  me  that  a  gosse  is  on  the 
way." 

Then  Gigolette,  she  looked  at  me  with  eyes  like 
stones  of  gall: 

"  If  we  were  honest  folks,"  said  she,  "  I  wouldn't 
mind  at  all. 

But  then  .  .  .  you  know  the  life  we  lead ;  well,  any- 
way I  mean 

(That  is,  providing  it's  a  girl)  to  call  her  Angeline." 

"  Cheer  up,"  said  I;  "  it's  all  in  life.  There's  gold 
within  the  dross. 

Come  on,  we'll  drink  another  verre  to  Angeline  the 

ffOSSC." 

And  so  the  weary  winter  passed,  and  then  one  April 

morn 
The  worthy  Julot  came  at  last  to  say  the  babe  was 

born. 
"  I'd  like  to  chuck  it  in  the  Seine,"  he  sourly  snarled, 

"  and  yet 

I  guess  I'll  have  to  let  it  live,  because  of  Gigolette." 
I  only  laughed,  for  sure  I  saw  his  spite  was  all  a  bluff, 
And  he  was  prouder  than  a  prince  behind  his  manner 

gruff. 
Yet  every  day  he'd  blast  the  brat  with  curses  deep 

and  grim, 
And  swear  to  me  that  Gigolette  no  longer  thought 

of  him. 


JULOT  THE  APACHE  23 

And  then  one  night  he  dropped  the  mask;  his  eyes 

were  sick  with  dread, 
And  when  I  offered  him  a  smoke  he  groaned  and 

shook  his  head: 
"I'm    all   upset;   it's   Angeline  .  .  .  she's   covered 

with  a  rash  .  .   . 
She'll  maybe  die,  my  little  gosse,"  cried  Julot  the 

apache. 

But  Angeline,  I  joy  to  say,  came  through  the  test 

all  right, 
Though  Julot,  so  they  tell  me,  watched  beside  her 

day  and  night. 
And  when  I  saw  him  next,  says  he :     "  Come  up  and 

dine  with  me. 
We'll  buy  a  beefsteak  on  the  way,  a  bottle  and  some 

brie." 

And  so  I  had  a  merry  night  within  his  humble  home, 
And  laughed  with  Angeline  the  gosse  and  Gigolette 

the  mome. 
And  every  time  that  Julot  used  a  word  the  least 

obscene, 
How  Gigolette  would  frown  at  him  and  point  to 

Angeline : 

Oh,  such  a  little  innocent,  with  hair  of  silken  floss, 
I  do  not  wonder  they  were  proud  of  Angeline  the 

gosse. 
And  when  her  arms  were  round  his  neck,  then  Julot 

says  to  me: 
"  I  must  work  harder  now,  mon  vieux,  since  I've  to 

work   for  three." 


24  JULOT  THE  APACHE 

He  worked  so  very  hard  indeed,  the  police  dropped 

in  one  day, 
And  for  a  year  behind  the  bars  they  put  him  safe 

away. 

So  dark  and  silent  now,  their  home;  they'd  gone  — 

I  wondered  where, 

Till  in  a  laundry  near  I  saw  a  child  with  shining  hair; 
And  o'er  the  tub  a  strapping  wench,  her  arms  in 

soapy  foam; 
Lo!  it  was  Angeline  the  gosse,  and  Gigolette  the 

mome. 
And  so  I  kept  an  eye  on  them  and  saw  that  all  went 

e  right, 

Until  at  last  came  Julot  home,  half  crazy  with  de- 
light. 
And  when  he'd  kissed  them  both,  says  he :  "  I've  had 

my  fill  this  time. 
I'm  on  the  honest  now,  I  am;  I'm  all  fed  up  with 

crime. 
You  mark  my  words,  the  page  I  turn  is  going  to  be 

clean, 
I  swear  it  on  the  head  of  her,  my  little  Angeline." 

And  so,  to  finish  up  my  tale,  this  morning  as  I 
strolled 

Along  the  boulevard  I  heard  a  voice  I  knew  of  old. 

I  saw  a  rosy  little  man  with  walrus-like  mus- 
tache .  .  . 

I  stopped,  I  stared.  ...  By  all  the  gods!  'twas 
Julot  the  apache. 


L'ESCARGOT  D'OR  25 

"  I'm   in   the   garden   way,"    he   said,    "  and   doing 

mighty  well; 
I've  half  an  acre  under  glass,  and  heaps  of  truck  to 

sell. 
Come  out  and  see.     Oh  come,  my  friend,  on  Sunday, 

wet  or  shine  .  .  . 
Say!  —  it's  the  First  Communion  of  that  little  girl 

of  mine." 

II 

Chez  Moi,  MONTPARNASSE, 

The  same  evening. 

To-day  is  an  anniversary.  A  year  ago  to-day  I  kicked 
over  an  office  stool  and  came  to  Paris  thinking  to  make  a 
living  by  my  pen.  I  was  twenty  then,  and  in  my  pocket 
I  had  twenty  pounds.  Of  that,  my  ten  sous  are  all  that 
remain.  And  so  to-night  I  am  going  to  spend  them,  not 
prudently  on  bread,  but  prodigally  on  beer. 

As  I  stroll  down  the  Boul'  Mich'  the  lingering  light 
has  all  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  violet;  the  trees  are  in 
their  first  translucent  green;  beneath  them  the  lamps  are 
lit  with  purest  gold,  and  from  the  Little  Luxembourg  comes 
a  silver  jangle  of  tiny  voices.  Taking  the  gay  side  of  the 
street,  I  enter  a  cafe.  Although  it  isn't  its  true  name,  I 
choose  to  call  my  cafe  — 


L'ESCARGOT  D'OR 

O  Tavern  of  the  Golden  Snail! 
Ten  sous  have  I,  so  I'll  regale; 


26  L 'ESC 'ARGOT  D'OR 

Ten  sous  your  amber  brew  to  sip 
(Eight  for  the  bock  and  two  the  tip), 
^nd  so  I'll  sit  the  evening  long, 

i  smoke  my  pipe  and  watch  the  throng, 

~iddy  crowd  that  drains  and  drinks, 
I'll    -atch  it  quiet  as  a  sphinx; 
And  who  among  them  all  shall  buy 
For  ten  poor  sous  such  joy  as  I  ? 
As  I  who,  snugly  tucked  away, 
Look  on  it  all  as  on  a  play, 
A  frolic  scene  of  love  and  fun, 
To  please  an  audience  of  One. 

O  Tavern  of  the  Golden  Snail ! 

You've  stuff  indeed  for  many  a  tale. 

All  eyes,  all  ears,  I  nothing  miss: 

Two  lovers  lean  to  clasp  and  kiss; 

The  merry  students  sing  and  shout, 

The  nimble  garcons  dart  about; 

Lo !  here  come  Mimi  and  Musette 

With:     "  S'il  vous  plait,  une  cigarette?" 

Marcel  and  Rudolf,  Shaunard  too, 

Behold  the  old  rapscallion  crew, 

With  flowing  tie  and  shaggy  head  .   .  . 

Who  says  Bohemia  is  dead? 

Oh  shades  of  Murger!  prank  and  clown, 

And  I  will  watch  and  write  it  down. 

O  Tavern  of  the  Golden  Snail ! 

What  crackling  throats  have  gulped  your  ale ! 

What  sons  of  Fame  from  far  and  near 


IT  IS  LATER  THAN  YOU  THINK     27 

Have  glowed  and  mellowed  in  your  cheer! 

Within  this  corner  where  I  sit 

Banville  and  Coppee  clashed  their  wit; 

And  hither  too,  to  dream  and  drain, 

And  drown  despair,  came  poor  Verlaine. 

Here  Wilde  would  talk  and  Singe  would  muse, 

Maybe  like  me  with  just  ten  sous. 

Ah!  one  is  lucky,  is  one  not? 

With  ghosts  so  rare  to  drain  a  pot ! 

So  may  your  custom  never  fail, 

O  Tavern  of  the  Golden  Snail! 

There !  my  pipe  is  out.  Let  me  light  it  again  and  consider. 
I  have  no  illusions  about  myself.  I  am  not  fool  enough  to 
think  I  am  a  poet,  but  I  have  a  knack  of  rhyme  and  I  love 
to  make  verses.  Mine  is  a  tootling,  tin-whistle  music. 
Humbly  and  afar  I  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Praed  and 
Lampson,  of  Field  and  Riley,  hoping  that  in  time  my  Muse 
may  bring  me  bread  and  butter.  So  far,  however,  it  has 
been  all  kicks  and  no  coppers.  And  to-night  I  am  at  the 
end  of  my  tether.  I  wish  I  knew  where  to-morrow's  break- 
fast was  coming  from.  Well,  since  rhyming's  been  my  ruin, 
let  me  rhvme  to  the  bitter  end. 


IT  IS  LATER  THAN  YOU  THINK 

Lone  amid  the  cafe's  cheer, 
Sad  of  heart  am  I  to-night; 
Dolefully  I  drink  my  beer, 
But  no  single  line  I  write. 
There's  the  wretched  rent  to  pay, 


28      IT  IS  LATER  THAN  YOU  THINK 

Yet  I  glower  at  pen  and  ink: 
Oh,  inspire  me,  Muse,  I  pray, 
It  is  later  than  you  think! 

Hello!  there's  a  pregnant  phrase. 
Bravo!  let  me  write  it  down; 
Hold  it  with  a  hopeful  gaze, 
Gauge  it  with  a  fretful  frown; 
Tune  it  to  my  lyric  lyre  .   .   . 
Ah!  upon  starvation's  brink, 
How  the  words  are  dark  and  dire : 
It  is  later  than  you  think. 

Weigh  them  well.  .  .  .  Behold  yon  band, 
Students  drinking  by  the  door, 
Madly  merry,  bock  in  hand, 
Saucers  stacked  to  mark  their  score. 
Get  you  gone,  you  jolly  scamps; 
Let  your  parting  glasses  clink; 
Seek  your  long  neglected  lamps : 
It  is  later  than  you  think. 

Look  again:  yon  dainty  blonde, 
All  allure  and  golden  grace, 
Oh  so  willing  to  respond 
Should  you  turn  a  smiling  face. 
Play  your  part,  poor  pretty  doll; 
Feast  and  frolic,  pose  and  prink; 
There's  the  Morgue  to  end  it  all, 
And  it's  later  than  you  think. 


IT  IS  LATER  THAN  YOU  THINK     29 

Yon's  a  playwright  —  mark  his  face, 
Puffed  and  purple,  tense  and  tired; 
Pasha-like  he  holds  his  place, 
Hated,  envied  and  admired. 
How  you  gobble  life,  my  friend; 
Wine,  and  woman  soft  and  pink! 
Well,  each  tether  has  its  end: 
Sir,  it's  later  than  you  think. 

See  yon  living  scarecrow  pass 

With  a  wild  and  wolfish  stare 

At  each  empty  absinthe  glass, 

As  if  he  saw  Heaven  there. 

Poor  damned  wretch,  to  end  your  pain 

There  is  still  the  Greater  Drink. 

Yonder  waits  the  sanguine  Seine  .   .   . 

It  is  later  than  you  think. 

Lastly,  you  who  read;  aye,  you 
Who  this  very  line  may  scan: 
Think  of  all  you  planned  to  do  ... 
Have  you  done  the  best  you  can? 
See !  the  tavern  lights  are  low ; 
Black's  the  night,  and  how  you  shrink! 
God!  and  is  it  time  to  go? 
Ah!  the  clock  is  always  slow; 
It  is  later  than  you  think; 
Sadly  later  than  you  think; 
Far,  far  later  than  you  think. 


30  NOCTAMBULE 

Scarcely  do  I  scribble  that  last  line  on  the  back  of  an  old 
envelope  when  a  voice  hails  me.  It  is  a  fellow  free-lance, 
a  short-story  man  called  MacBean.  He  is  having  a  feast 
of  Marennes  and  he  asks  me  to  join  him. 

MacBean  is  a  Scotsman  with  the  soul  of  an  Irishman.  He 
has  a  keen,  lean,  spectacled  face,  and  if  it  were  not  for  his 
gray  hair  he  might  be  taken  for  a  student  of  theology.  How- 
ever, there  is  nothing  of  the  Puritan  in  MacBean.  He  loves 
wine  and  women,  and  money  melts  in  his  fingers. 

He  has  lived  so  long  in  the  Quarter  he  looks  at  life  from 
the  Parisian  angle.  His  knowledge  of  literature  is  such  that 
he  might  be  a  Professor,  but  he  would  rather  be  a  vagabond 
of  letters.  We  talk  shop.  We  discuss  the  American  short 
story,  but  MacBean  vows  they  do  these  things  better  in 
France.  He  says  that  some  of  the  contes  printed  every  day 
in  the  Journal  are  worthy  of  Maupassant.  After  that  he 
buys  more  beer,  and  we  roam  airily  over  the  fields  of  litera- 
ture, plucking  here  and  there  a  blossom  of  quotation.  A  fine 
talk,  vivid  and  eager.  It  puts  me  into  a  kind  of  glow. 

MacBean  pays  the  bill  from  a  handful  of  big  notes,  and 
the  thought  of  my  own  empty  pockets  for  a  moment  damps 
me.  However,  when  we  rise  to  go,  it  is  well  after  midnight, 
and  I  am  in  a  pleasant  daze.  The  rest  of  the  evening  may 
be  summed  up  in  the  following  jingle: 


NOCTAMBULE 

Zut !  it's  two  o'clock. 

See  !  the  lights  are  jumping. 

Finish  up  your  bock, 

Time  we  all  were  humping. 

Waiters  stack  the  chairs, 


NOCTAMBULE  31 

Pile  them  on  the  tables; 
Let  us  to  our  lairs 
Underneath  the  gables. 

Up  the  old  Boul'  Mich' 

Climb  with  steps  erratic. 

Steady  .   .   .  how  I  wish 

I  was  in  my  attic! 

Full  am  I  with  cheer; 

In  my  heart  the  joy  stirs; 

Couldn't  be  the  beer, 

Must  have  been  the  oysters. 

In  obscene  array 
Garbage  cans  spill  over; 
How  I  wish  that  they 
Smelled  as  sweet  as  clover! 
Charing  women  wait; 
Cafes  drop  their  shutters; 
Rats  perambulate 
Up  and  down  the  gutters. 

Down  the  darkened  street 
Market  carts  are  creeping; 
Horse  with  wary  feet, 
Red-faced  driver  sleeping. 
Loads  of  vivid  greens, 
Carrots,  leeks,  potatoes, 
Cabbages  and  beans, 
Turnips  and  tomatoes. 


32  NOCTAMBULE 

Pair  of  dapper  chaps, 
Cigarettes  and  sashes, 
Stare  at  me,  perhaps 
Desperate  Apaches. 
"  Needn't  bother  me, 
Jolly  well  you  know  it; 
Parceque  je  suis 
Quartier  Latin  poet. 

"  Give  you  villanelles, 
Madrigals  and  lyrics; 
Ballades  and  rondels, 
Odes  and  panegyrics. 
Poet  pinched  and  poor, 
Pricked  by  cold  and  hunger; 
Trouble's  troubadour, 
Misery's  balladmonger." 

Think  how  queer  it  is ! 
Every  move  I'm  making, 
Cosmic  gravity's 
Center  I  am  shaking; 
Oh,  how  droll  to  feel 
(As  I  now  am  feeling), 
Even  as  I  reel, 
All  the  world  is  reeling. 

Reeling  too  the  stars, 
Neptune  and  Uranus, 
Jupiter  and  Mars, 
Mercury  and  Venus; 


INSOMNIA  33 

Suns  and  moons  with  me, 
As  I'm  homeward  straying, 
All  in  sympathy 
Swaying,  swaying,  swaying. 

Lord!  I've  got  a  head. 
Well,  it's  not  surprising. 
I  must  gain  my  bed 
Ere  the  sun  be  rising; 
When  the  merry  lark 
In  the  sky  is  soaring, 
I'll  refuse  t'   iiark, 
I'll  be  snoring,  snoring. 

Strike  a  sulphur  match  .   .  . 

Ha!  at  last  my  garret. 

Fumble  at  the  latch, 

Close  the  do^r  and  bar  it. 

Bed,  you  graciously 

Wait,  despite  my  scorning  .   .   . 

So,  bibaciously 

Mad  old  world,  good  morning. 

Ill 

MY  GARRET,  MONTPARNASSE, 

April 

INSOMNIA 

Heigh  ho!  to  sleep  I  vainly  try; 
Since  twelve  I  haven't  closed  an  eye, 


34  INSOMNIA 

And  rtow  it's  three,  and  as  I  lie, 

From  Notre  Dame  to  St.  Denis 

The  bells  of  Paris  chime  to  me; 

"  You're  young,"  they  say,  "  and  strong  and  free." 

I  do  not  turn  with  sighs  and  groans 

To  ease  my  limbs,  to  rest  my  bones, 

As  if  my  bed  were  stuffed  with  stones, 

No  peevish  murmur  tips  my  tongue  — 

Ah  no !  for  every  sound  upflung 

Says:     "  Lad,  you're  free  and  strong  and  young." 

And  so  beneath  the  sheet's  caress 

My  body  purrs  with  happiness; 

Joy  bubbles  in  my  veins.  .  .  .  Ah  yes, 

My  very  blood  that  leaps  along 

Is  chiming  in  a  joyous  song, 

Because  I'm  young  and  free  and  strong. 


Maybe  it  is  the  springtide.  I  am  so  happy  I  am  afraid. 
The  sense  of  living  fills  me  with  exultation.  I  want  to 
sing,  to  dance;  I  am  dithyrambic  with  delight. 

I  think  the  moon  must  be  to  blame : 

It  fills  the  room  with  fairy  flame; 

It  paints  the  wall,  it  seems  to  pour 

A  dappled  flood  upon  the  floor. 

I  rise  and  through  the  window  stare  .   .  . 

Ye  gods  !  how  marvelously  fair ! 

From  Montrouge  to  the  Martyr's  Hill, 


INSOMNIA  35 

A  silver  city  rapt  and  still; 

Dim,  drowsy  deeps  of  opai  haze, 

And  spire  and  dome  in  diamond  blaze; 

The  little  lisping  leaves  of  spring 

Like  sequins  softly  glimmering; 

Each  roof  a  plaque  of  argent  sheen, 

A  gauzy  gulf  the  space  between; 

Each  chimney-top  a  thing  of  grace, 

Where  merry  moonbeams  prank  and  chase; 

And  all  that  sordid  was  and  mean, 

Just  Beauty,  deathless  and  serene. 

O  magic  city  of  a  dream ! 

From  glory  unto  glory  gleam; 

And  I  will  gaze  and  pity  those 

Who  on  their  pillows  drowse  and  doze  .   .  . 

And  as  I've  nothing  else  to  do, 

Of  tea  I'll  make  a  rousing  brew, 

And  coax  my  pipes  until  they  croon, 

And  chant  a  ditty  to  the  moon. 


There!   my  tea  is  black  and  strong.     Inspiration   comes 
with  every  sip.     Now  for  the  moon. 

The  moon  peeped  out  behind  the  hill 

As  yellow  as  an  apricot; 

Then  up  and  up  it  climbed  until 

Into  the  sky  it  fairly  got; 

The  sky  was  vast  and  violet; 

The  poor  moon  seemed  to  faint  in  fright, 


36  MOON  SONG 

And  pale  it  grew  and  paler  yet, 
Like  fine  old  silver,  rinsed  and  bright. 
And  yet  it  climbed  so  bravely  on 
Until  it  mounted  heaven-high; 
Then  earthward  it  serenely  shone, 
A  silver  sovereign  of  the  sky, 
A  bland  sultana  of  the  night, 
Surveying  realms  of  lily  light. 


MOON  SONG 

A  child  saw  in  the  morning  skies 

The  dissipated-looking  moon, 

And  opened  wide  her  big  blue  eyes, 

And  cried:     "  Look,  look,  my  lost  balloon! 

And  clapped  her  rosy  hands  with  glee : 

u  Quick,  mother !     Bring  it  back  to  me." 

A  poet  in  a  lilied  pond 
Espied  the  moon's  reflected  charms, 
And  ravished  by  that  beauty  blonde, 
Leapt  out  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 
And  as  he'd  never  learnt  to  swim, 
Poor  fool !  that  was  the  end  of  him. 

A  rustic  glimpsed  amid  the  trees 

The  bluff  moon  caught  as  in  a  snare.  • 

"  They  say  it  do  be  made  of  cheese," 

Said  Giles,  "  and  that  a  chap  bides  there.   .  . 

That  Blue  Boar  ale  be  strong,  I  vow  — 

The  lad's  a-winkin'  at  me  now." 


MOON  SONG  37 

Two  lovers  watched  the  new  moon  hold 

The  old  moon  in  her  bright  embrace. 

Said  she:     "There's  mother,  pale  and  old, 

And  drawing  near  her  resting  place." 

Said  he :     "  Be  mine,  and  with  me  wed," 

Moon-high  she  stared  .   .   .   she  shook  her  head. 

A  soldier  saw  with  dying  eyes 

The  bleared  moon  like  a  ball  of  blood, 

And  thought  of  how  in  other  skies, 

So  pearly  bright  on  leaf  and  bud 

Like  peace  its  soft  white  beams  had  lain; 

Like  Peace!  .  .  .  He  closed  his  eyes  again. 

Child,  lover,  poet,  soldier,  clown, 

Ah  yes,  old  Moon,  what  things  you've  seen! 

I  marvel  now,  as  you  look  down, 

How  can  your  face  be  so  serene? 

And  tranquil  still  you'll  make  your  round, 

Old  Moon,  when  we  are  underground. 

"  And  now,  blow  out  your  candle,  lad,  and  get  to  bed. 
See,  the  dawn  is  in  the  sky.  Open  your  window  and  let 
its  freshness  rouge  your  cheek.  You've  earned  your  rest. 
Sleep." 

Aye,  but  before  I  do  so,  let  me  read  again  the  last  of 
my  Ballads. 


38  THE  SEWING-GIRL 


THE  SEWING-GIRL 

The  humble  garret  where  I  dwell 
Is  in  that  Quarter  called  the  Latin; 
It  isn't  spacious  —  truth  to  tell, 
There's  hardly  room  to  swing  a  cat  in. 
But  what  of  that!     It's  there  I  fight 
For  food  and  fame,  my  Muse  inviting, 
And  all  the  day  and  half  the  night 
You'll  find  me  writing,  writing,  writing. 

Now,  it  was  in  the  month  of  May 
As,  wrestling  with  a  rhyme  rheumatic, 
I  chanced  to  look  across  the  way, 
And  lo!  within  a  neighbor  attic, 
A  hand  drew  back  the  window  shade, 
And  there,  a  picture  glad  and  glowing, 
I  saw  a  sweet  and  slender  maid, 
And  she  was  sewing,  sewing,  sewing. 

So  poor  the  room,  so  small,  so  scant, 

Yet  somehow  oh,  so  bright  and  airy. 

There  was  a  pink  geranium  plant, 

Likewise  a  very  pert  canary. 

And  in  the  maiden's  heart  it  seemed 

Some  fount  of  gladness  must  be  springing, 

For  as  alone  I  sadly  dreamed 

I  heard  her  singing,  singing,  singing. 


THE  SEWING-GIRL  39 

God  love  her!  how  it  cheered  me  then 
To  see  her  there  so  brave  and  pretty; 
So  she  with  needle,  I  with  pen, 
We  slaved  and  sang  above  the  city. 
And  as  across  my  streams  of  ink 
I  watched  her  from  a  poet's  distance, 
She  stitched  and  sang  ...  I  scarcely  think 
She  was  aware  of  my  existence. 

And  then  one  day  she  sang  no  more. 
That  put  me  out,  there's  no  denying. 
I  looked  —  she  labored  as  before, 
But,  bless  me !  she  was  crying,  crying. 
Her  poor  canary  chirped  in  vain; 
Her  pink  geranium  drooped  in  sorrow; 
"  Of  course,"  said  I,  "  she'll  sing  again. 
Maybe,"  I  sighed,  "  she  will  to-morrow." 

Poor  child;  'twas  finished  with  her  song: 
Day  after  day  her  tears  were  flowing; 
And  as  I  wondered  what  was  wrong 
She  pined  and  peaked  above  her  sewing. 
And  then  one  day  the  blind  she  drew, 
Ah !  though  I  sought  with  vain  endeavor 
To  pierce  the  darkness,  well  I  knew 
My  sewing-girl  had  gone  for  ever. 

And  as  I  sit  alone  to-night 

My  eyes  unto  her  room  are  turning  .   .  . 

I'd  give  the  sum  of  all  I  write 

Once  more  to  see  her  candle  burning, 


40  THE  SEWING-GIRL 

Once  more  to  glimpse  her  happy  face, 
And  while  my  rhymes  of  cheer  I'm  ringing, 
Across  the  sunny  sweep  of  space 
To  hear  her  singing,  singing,  singing. 


Heigh  ho !  I  realize  I  am  very  weary.  It's  nice  to  be  so 
tired,  and  to  know  one  can  sleep  as  long  as  one  wants.  The 
morning  sunlight  floods  in  at  my  window,  so  I  draw  the 
blind,  and  throw  myself  on  my  bed.  .  .  . 


IV 

MY  GARRET,  MONTPARNASSE, 

April. 

Hurrah!  As  I  opened  my  eyes  this  morning  to  a  hard, 
unfeeling  world,  little  did  I  think  what  a  surprise  awaited 
me.  A  big  blue  envelope  had  been  pushed  under  my  door. 
Another  rejection,  I  thought,  and  I  took  it  up  distastefully. 
The  next  moment  I  was  staring  at  my  first  cheque. 

It  was  an  express  order  for  two  hundred  francs,  in  payment 
of  a  bit  of  verse.  ...  So  to-day  I  will  celebrate.  I  will 
lunch  at  the  D'Harcourt,  I  will  dine  on  the  Grand  Boulevard, 
I  will  go  to  the  theater. 

Well,  here's  the  thing  that  has  turned  the  tide  for  me. 
It  is  somewhat  in  the  vein  of  "  Sourdough  "  Service,  the 
Yukon  bard.  I  don't  think  much  of  his  stuff,  but  they 
say  he  makes  heaps  of  money.  I  can  well  believe  it,  for 
he  drives  a  Hispano-Suiza  in  the  Bois  every  afternoon.  The 
other  night  he  was  with  a  crowd  at  the  Dome  Cafe,  a  chubby 
chap  who  sits  in  a  corner  and  seldom  speaks.  I  was  dis- 


LUCILLE  41 

appointed.  I  thought  he  was  a  big,  hairy  man  who  swore 
like  a  trooper  and  mixed  brandy  with  his  beer.  He  only 
drank  Vichy,  poor  fellow ! 


LUCILLE 

Of  course  you've  heard  of  the  Nancy  Lee,  and  how 

she  sailed  away 
On  her  famous  quest  of  the  Arctic  flea,  to  the  wilds 

of  Hudson's  Bay? 
For  it  was  a  foreign  Prince's  whim  to  collect  this 

tiny  cuss, 
And   a   golden   quid  was   no   more   to   him   than   a 

copper  to  coves  like  us. 
So  we  sailed  away  and  our  hearts  were  gay  as  we 

gazed  on  the  gorgeous  scene; 
And  we  laughed  with  glee  as  we  caught  the  flea  of 

the  wolf  and  the  wolverine; 
Yea,  our  hearts  were  light  as  the  parasite  of  the 

ermine  rat  we  slew, 
And  the  great  musk  ox,  and  the  silver  fox,  and  the 

moose  and  the  caribou. 
And  we  laughed  with  zest  as  the  insect  pest  of  the 

marmot  crowned  our  zeal, 
And  the  wary  mink  and  the  wily  "  link,"  and  the 

walrus  and  the  seal. 
And  with  eyes  aglow  on  the  scornful  snow  we  danced 

a  rigadoon, 
Round  the  lonesome  lair  of  the  Arctic  hare,  by  the 

light  of  the  silver  moon. 


42  LUCILLE 

But   the   time   was   nigh   to   homeward   hie,   when, 

imagine  our  despair ! 
For  the  best  of  the  lot  we  hadn't  got  —  the  flea  of 

the  polar  bear. 
Oh,  his  face  was  long  and  his  breath  was  strong,  as 

the  Skipper  he  says  to  me : 
"  I  wants  you  to  linger  'ere,  my  lad,  by  the  shores 

of  the  Hartic  Sea; 
I  wants  you   to  'unt  the  polar  bear  the   perishin' 

winter  through, 
And  if  flea  ye  find  of  its  breed  and  kind,  there's  a 

'undred  quid  for  you." 
But  I  shook  my  head:     "No,  Cap,"  I  said;  "  it's 

yourself  I'd  like  to  please, 
But  I  tells  ye  flat  I  wouldn't  do  that  if  ye  went  on 

yer  bended  knees." 
Then  the  Captain  spat  in  the  seething  brine,  and 

he  says:     "  Good  luck  to  you, 
If  it  can't  be  did  for  a  'undred  quid,  supposin'  we 

call  it  two?  " 
So  that  was  why  they  said  good-by,  and  they  sailed 

and  left  me  there  — 
Alone,   alone  in  the  Arctic  Zone  to  hunt   for  the 

polar  bear. 

Oh,  the  days  were  slow  and  packed  with  woe,  till  I 

thought  they  would  never  end ; 
And  I  used  to  sit  when  the  fire  was  lit,  with  my 

pipe  for  my  only  friend. 
And  I  tried  to  sing  some  rollicky  thing,  but  my  song 

broke  off  in  a  prayer, 


LUCILLE  43 

And  I'd  drowse  and  dream  by  the  driftwood  gleam; 

I'd  dream  of  a  polar  bear; 
I'd  dream  of  a  cloudlike  polar  bear  that  blotted  the 

stars  on  high, 
With   ravenous  jaws   and   flenzing  claws,    and   the 

flames  of  hell  in  his  eye. 
And  I'd  trap  around  on  the  frozen  ground,   as  a 

proper  hunter  ought, 
And  beasts  I'd  find  of  every  kind,  but  never  the  one 

I  sought. 
Never  a  track  in  the  white  ice-pack  that  humped 

and  heaved  and  flawed, 
Till  I  came  to  think:     "Why,  strike  me  pink!  if 

the  creature  ain't  a  fraud." 
And  then  one  night  in  the  waning  light,  as  I  hurried 

home  to  sup, 
I  hears  a  roar  by  the  cabin  door,  and  a  great  white 

hulk  heaves  up. 
So  my  rifle  flashed,  and  a  bullet  crashed;  dead,  dead 

as  a  stone  fell  he, 
And  I  gave  a  cheer,  for  there  in  his  ear  — Gosh  ding 

me  !  —  a  tiny  flea. 

At  last,  at  last !     Oh,  I  clutched  it  fast,  and  I  gazed 

on  it  with  pride ; 
And  I  thrust  it  into  a  biscuit-tin,  and  I  shut  it  safe 

inside; 
With  a  lid  of  glass  for  the  light  to  pass,  and  space 

to  leap  and  play; 
Oh,  it  kept  alive;  yea,  seemed  to  thrive,  as  I  watched 

it  night  and  day. 


44  LUCILLE 

And  I  used  to  sit  and  sing  to  it,  and  I  shielded  it 

from  harm, 
And  many  a  hearty  feed  it  had  on  the  heft  of  my 

hairy  arm. 

For  you'll  never  know  in  that  land  of  snow  how  lone- 
some a  man  can  feel; 
So  I  made  a  fuss  of  the  little  cuss,  and  I  christened 

it  "  Lucille." 
But  the  longest  winter  has  its  end,  and  the  ice  went 

out  to  sea, 
And  I  saw  one  day  a  ship  in  the  bay,  and  there  was 

the  Nancy  Lee. 
So  a  boat  was  lowered  and  I  went  aboard,  and  they 

opened  wide  their  eyes  — 
Yes,  they  gave  a  cheer  when  the  truth  was  clear, 

and  they  saw  my  precious  prize. 
And  then  it  was  all  like  a  giddy  dream;  but  to  cut 

my  story  short, 
We  sailed  away  on  the  fifth  of  May  to  the  foreign 

Prince's  court; 
To  a  palmy  land  and  a  palace  grand,  and  the  little 

Prince  was  there, 
And  a  fat  Princess  in  a  satin  dress  with  a  crown  of 

gold  on  her  hair. 
And  they  showed  me  into  a  shiny  room,  just  him 

and  her  and  me, 
And  the  Prince  he  was  pleased   and   friendly-like, 

and  he  calls  for  drinks  for  three. 
And  I  shows  them  my  battered  biscuit-tin,   and  I 

makes  my  modest  spiel, 


LUCILLE  45 

And  they  laughed,  they  did,  when  I  opened  the  lid, 
and  out  there  popped  Lucille. 

Oh,  the  Prince  was  glad,  I  could  soon  see  that,  and 

the  Princess  she  was  too; 
And  Lucille  waltzed  round  on  the  tablecloth  as  she 

often  used  to  do. 
And  the  Prince  pulled  out  a  purse  of  gold,  and  he 

put  it  in  my  hand; 
And  he  says :     "  It  was  worth  all  that,  I'm  told,  to 

stay  in  that  nasty  land." 
And   then   he   turned  with   a   sudden   cry,    and   he 

clutched  at  his  royal  beard; 
And  the  Princess  screamed,  and  well  she  might  — 

for  Lucille  had  disappeared. 

u  She  must  be  here,"  said  his  Noble  Nibbs,  so  we 

hunted  all  around; 
Oh,  we  searched  that  place,  but  never  a  trace  of  the 

little  beast  we  found. 
So  I  shook  my  head,  and  I  glumly  said:     "  Gol  darn 

the  saucy  cuss! 
It's  mighty  queer,  but  she  isn't  here;  so  ...  she 

must  be  on  one  of  us. 
You'll  pardon  me  if  I  make  so  free,  but  —  there's 

just  one  thing  to  do  : 
If  you'll  kindly  go  for  a  half  a  mo'  I'll  search  me 

garments  through." 
Then  all  alone  on  the  shiny  throne  I  stripped  from 

head  to  heel; 


46  LUCILLE 

In  vain,  in  vain;  it  was  very  plain  that  I  hadn't  got 

Lucille. 
So  I  garbed  again,  and  I  told  the  Prince,  and  he 

scratched  his  august  head; 
"  I  suppose  if  she  hasn't  selected  you,  it  must  be 

me,"  he  said. 

So  he  retired;  but  he  soon  came  back,  and  his  fea- 
tures showed  distress : 
"  Oh,  it  isn't  you  and  it  isn't  me."  .   .   .  Then  we 

looked  at  the  Princess. 
So  she  retired;   and  we  heard  a  scream,   and  she 

opened  wide  the  door; 
And  her  fingers  twain  were  pinched  to  pain,  but  a 

radiant  smile  she  wore: 
"  It's  here,"  she  cries,  "  our  precious  prize.     Oh,  I 

found  it  right  away.   .   .   ." 
Then  I  ran  to  her  with  a  shout  of  joy,  but  I  choked 

with  a  wild  dismay. 
I  clutched  the  back  of  the  golden  throne,  and  the 

room  began  to  reel  .  .  . 
What  she  held  to  me  was,  ah  yes!  a  flea,  but  .  .  . 

it  wasn't  my  Lucille. 


After  all,  I  did  not  celebrate.  I  sat  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Cafe  Napolitain  on  the  Grand  Boulevard,  half  hypnotized 
by  the  passing  crowd.  And  as  I  sat  I  fell  into  conversation 
with  a  god-like  stranger  who  sipped  some  golden  ambrosia. 
He  told  me  he  was  an  actor  and  introduced  me  to  his  bever- 
age, which  he  called  a  "  Suze-Anni."  He  soon  left  me,  but 
the  effect  of  the  golden  liquid  remained,  and  there  came 


ON  THE  BOULEVARD  47 

over  me  a  desire  to  write.  C'etait  plus  fort  que  moi.  So 
instead  of  going  to  the  Folies  Bergere  I  spent  all  evening  in 
the  Omnium  Bar  near  the  Bourse,  and  wrote  the  following: 


ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Oh,  it's  pleasant  sitting  here, 
Seeing  all  the  people  pass; 
You  beside  your  bock  of  beer, 
I  behind  my  demi-tasse. 
Chatting  of  no  matter  what. 
You  the  Mummer,  I  the  Bard; 
Oh,  it's  jolly,  is  it  not?  — 
Sitting  on  the  Boulevard. 

More  amusing  than  a  book, 
If  a  chap  has  eyes  to  see; 
For,  no  matter  where  I  look, 
Stories,  stories  jump  at  me. 
Moving  tales  my  pen  might  write; 
Poems  plain  on  every  face; 
Monologues  you  could  recite 
With  inimitable  grace. 

(Ah!  Imagination's  power) 
See  yon  demi-mondaine  there, 
Idly  toying  with  a  flower, 
Smiling  with  a  pensive  air  ... 
Well,  her  smile  is  but  a  mask, 
For  I  saw  within  her  muff 


48  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Such  a  wicked  little  flask: 
Vitriol  —  ugh !  the  beastly  stuff. 

Now  look  back  beside  the  bar. 
See  yon  curled  and  scented  beau, 
Puffing  at  a  fine  cigar  — 
Sale  espece  de  maquereau. 
Well   (of  course,  it's  all  surmise), 
It's  for  him  she  holds  her  place; 
When  he  passes  she  will  rise, 
Dash  the  vitriol  in  his  face. 

Quick  they'll  carry  him  away, 
Pack  him  in  a  Red  Cross  car; 
Her  they'll  hurry,  so  they  say, 
To  the  cells  of  St.  Lazare. 
What  will  happen  then,  you  ask? 
What  will  all  the  sequel  be? 
Ah !  Imagination's  task 
Isn't  easy  ...  let  me  see  .  .  . 

She  will  go  to  jail,  no  doubt, 
For  a  year,  or  maybe  two; 
Then  as  soon  as  she  gets  out 
Start  her  bawdy  life  anew. 
He  will  lie  within  a  ward, 
Harmless  as  a  man  can  be, 
With  his  face  grotesquely  scarred, 
And  his  eyes  that  cannot  see. 

Then  amid  the  city's  din 
He  will  stand  against  a  wall, 


ON  THE  BOULEVARD  4$ 

With  around  his  neck  a  tin 
Into  which  the  pennies  fall. 
She  will  pass  (I  see  it  plain, 
Like  a  cinematograph), 
She  will  halt  and  turn  again, 
Look  and  look,  and  maybe  laugh. 

Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  — 

Whether  she  will  laugh  or  cry. 

He  will  hold  a  battered  hat 

To  the  lady  passing  by. 

He  will  smile  a  cringing  smile, 

And  into  his  grimy  hold, 

With  a  laugh  (or  sob)  the  while, 

She  will  drop  a  piece  of  gold. 

"  Bless  you,  lady,"  he  will  say, 
And  get  grandly  drunk  that  night. 
She  will  come  and  come  each  day, 
Fascinated  by  the  sight. 
Then  somehow  he'll  get  to  know 
(Maybe  by  some  kindly  friend) 
Who  she  is,  and  so  ...   and  so 
Bring  my  story  to  an  end. 

How  his  heart  will  burst  with  hate ! 
He  will  curse  and  he  will  cry. 
He  will  wait  and  wait  and  wait, 
Till  again  she  passes  by. 
Then  like  tiger  from  its  lair 
He  will  leap  from  out  his  place, 


50  ON  THE  BOULEVARD 

Down  her,  clutch  her  by  the  hair, 
Smear  the  vitriol  on  her  face. 

(Ah!  Imagination  rare) 
See  ...  he  takes  his  hat  to  go; 
Now  he's  level  with  her  chair; 
Now  she  rises  up  to  throw.   .  .  . 
God!  and  she  has  done  it  too  .   .  . 
Oh,  those  screams;  those  hideous  screams 
I  imagined  and     .   .  .  it's  true : 
How  his  face  will  haunt  my  dreams ! 

What  a  sight!     It  makes  me  sick. 
Seems  I  am  to  blame  somehow. 
Garcon,  fetch  a  brandy  quick  .  .  . 
There  !     I'm  feeling  better  now. 
Let's  collaborate,  we  two, 
You  the  Mummer,  I  the  Bard; 
Oh,  what  ripping  stuff  we'll  do, 
Sitting  on  the  Boulevard ! 


It  is  strange  how  one  works  easily  at  times.  I  wrote 
this  so  quickly  that  I  might  almost  say  I  had  reached  the 
end  before  I  had  come  to  the  beginning.  In  such  a  mood 
I  wonder  why  everybody  does  not  write  poetry.  Get  a 
Roget's  Thesaurus,  a  rhyming  dictionary:  sit  before  your 
typewriter  with  a  strong  glass  of  coffee  at  your  elbow,  and 
just  click  the  stuff  off. 


FACILITY  51 

FACILITY 

So  easy  'tis  to  make  a  rhyme, 
That  did  the  world  but  know  it, 
Your  coachman  might  Parnassus  climb, 
Your  butler  be  a  poet. 

Then,  oh,  how  charming  it  would  be 
If,  when  in  haste  hysteric 
You  called  the  page,  you  learned  that  he 
Was  grappling  with  a  lyric. 

Or  else  what  rapture  it  would  yield, 
When  cook  sent  up  the  salad, 
To  find  within  its  depths  concealed 
A  touching  little  ballad. 

Or  if  for  tea  and  toast  you  yearned, 
What  joy  to  find  upon  it 
The  chambermaid  had  coyly  laid 
A  palpitating  sonnet. 

Your  baker  could  the  fashion  set; 
Your  butcher  might  respond  well; 
With  every  tart  a  triolet, 
With  every  chop  a  rondel. 

Your  tailor's  bill  .  .  .  well,  I'll  be  blowed! 
Dear  chap !     I  never  knowed  him  .   .  . 
He's  gone  and  written  me  an  ode, 
Instead  of  what  I  owed  him. 


52  GOLDEN  DAYS 

So  easy  'tis  to  rhyme  .   .   .  yet  stay! 
Oh,  terrible  misgiving! 
Please  do  not  give  the  game  away  . 
I've  got  to  make  my  living. 


MY  GARRET 
May  1914. 

GOLDEN  DAYS 

Another  day  of  toil  and  strife, 
Another  page  so  white, 
Within  that  fateful  Log  of  Life 
That  I  and  all  must  write; 
Another  page  without  a  stain 
To  make  of  as  I  may, 
That  done,  I  shall  not  see  again 
Until  the  Judgment  Day. 

Ah,  could  I,  could  I  backward  turn 

The  pages  of  that  Book, 

How  often  would  I  blench  and  burn ! 

How  often  loathe  to  look ! 

What  pages  would  be  meanly  scrolled; 

What  smeared  as  if  with  mud; 

A  few,  maybe,  might  gleam  like  gold, 

Some  scarlet  seem  as  blood. 

O  Record  grave,  God  guide  my  hand 
And  make  me  worthy  be, 


THE  JOY  OF  LITTLE  THINGS       53 

Since  what  I  write  to-day  shall  stand 

To  all  eternity; 

Aye,  teach  me,  Lord  of  Life,  I  pray, 

As  I  salute  the  sun, 

To  bear  myself  that  every  day 

May  be  a  Golden  One. 


I  awoke  this  morning  to  see  the  bright  sunshine  flooding 
my  garret.  No  chamber  in  the  palace  of  a  king  could 
have  been  more  fair.  How  I  sang  as  I  dressed!  How  I 
lingered  over  my  coffee,  savoring  every  drop!  How  care- 
fully I  packed  my  pipe,  gazing  serenely  over  the  roofs  of 
Paris. 

Never  is  the  city  so  lovely  as  in  this  month  of  May,  when 
all  the  trees  are  in  the  fullness  of  their  foliage.  As  I  look,  I 
feel  a  freshness  of  vision  in  my  eyes.  Wonder  wakes  in 
me.  The  simplest  things  move  me  to  delight. 


THE  JOY  OF  LITTLE  THINGS 

It's  good  the  great  green  earth  to  roam, 
Where  sights  of  awe  the  soul  inspire; 
But  oh,  it's  best,  the  coming  home, 
The  crackle  of  one's  own  hearth-fire ! 
You've  hob-nobbed  with  the  solemn  Past; 
You've  seen  the  pageantry  of  kings; 
Yet  oh,  how  sweet  to  gain  at  last 
The  peace  and  rest  of  Little  Things ! 


54       THE  JOY  OF  LITTLE  THINGS 

Perhaps  you're  counted  with  the  Great; 
You  strain  and  strive  with  mighty  men; 
Your  hand  is  on  the  helm  of  State; 
Colossus-like  you  stride  .  .  .  and  then 
There  comes  a  pause,  a  shining  hour, 
A  dog  that  leaps,  a  hand  that  clings: 
O  Titan,  turn  from  pomp  and  power; 
Give  all  your  heart  to  Little  Things. 

Go  couch  you  childwise  in  the  grass, 
Believing  it's  some  jungle  strange, 
Where  mighty  monsters  peer  and  pass, 
Where  beetles  roam  and  spiders  range. 
'Mid  gloom  and  gleam  of  leaf  and  blade, 
What  dragons  rasp  their  painted  wings! 
O  magic  world  of  shine  and  shade ! 

0  beauty  land  of  Little  Things ! 

1  sometimes  wonder,  after  all, 
Amid  this  tangled  web  of  fate, 

If  what  is  great  may  not  be  small, 

And  what  is  small  may  not  be  great. 

So  wondering  I  go  my  way, 

Yet  in  my  heart  contentment  sings  .  .  . 

O  may  I  ever  see,  I  pray, 

God's  grace  and  love  in  Little  Things. 

So  give  to  me,  I  only  beg, 
A  little  roof  to  call  my  own, 
A  little  cider  in  the  keg, 
A  little  meat  upon  the  bone; 


THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS  55 

A  little  garden  by  the  sea, 
A  little  boat  that  dips  and  swings  .   .   . 
Take  wealth,  take  fame,  but  leave  to  me, 
O  Lord  of  Life,  just  Little  Things. 


Yesterday  I  finished  my  tenth  ballad.  When  I  have  done 
about  a  score  I  will  seek  a  publisher.  If  I  cannot  find  one, 
I  will  earn,  beg  or  steal  the  money  to  get  them  printed. 
Then  if  they  do  not  sell  I  will  hawk  them  from  door  to  door. 
Oh,  I'll  succeed,  I  know  I'll  succeed.  And  yet  I  don't  want 
an  easy  success;  give  me  the  joy  of  the  fight,  the  thrill 
of  the  adventure.  Here's  my  last  ballad : 


He's  yonder,  on  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix, 

The  little  wizened  Spanish  man,  I  see  him  every  day. 

He's  sitting  with  his  Pernod  on  his  customary  chair; 

He's  staring  at  the  passers  with  his  customary  stare. 

He  never  takes  his  piercing  eyes  from  off  that  mov- 
ing throng, 

That  current  cosmopolitan  meandering  along: 

Dark  diplomats  from  Martinique,  pale  Rastas  from 
Peru, 

An  Englishman  from  Bloomsbury,  a  Yank  from 
Kalamazoo; 

A  poet  from  Montmartre's  heights,  a  dapper  little 

Jap, 
Exotic  citizens  of  all  the  countries  on  the  map; 


56  THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS 

A  tourist  horde  from  every  land  that's  underneath 

the  sun  — 
That  little  wizened  Spanish  man,  he  misses  never 

one. 
Oh,  foul  or  fair  he's  always  there,  and  many  a  drink 

he  buys, 
And  there's  a  fire  of  red  desire  within  his  hollow 

eyes. 
And  sipping  of  my  Pernod,  and  a-knowing  what  I 

know, 
Sometimes  I  want  to  shriek  aloud  and  give  away 

the  show. 
I've  lost  my  nerve;  he's  haunting  me;  he's  like  a 

beast  of  prey, 
That  Spanish  man  that's  watching  at  the  Cafe  de 

la  Paix. 

Say!     Listen  and  I'll  tell  you  all  ...  the  day  was 

growing  dim, 

And  I  was  with  my  Pernod  at  the  table  next  to  him ; 
And  he  was  sitting  soberly  as  if  he  were  asleep, 
When  suddenly  he  seemed  to  tense,  like  tiger  for  a 

leap. 
And  then  he  swung  around  to  me,  his  hand  went  to 

his  hip, 
My  heart  was  beating  like  a  gong  —  my  arm  was 

in  his  grip; 
His   eyes  were   glaring  into   mine;   aye,    though   I 

shrank  with  fear, 
His  fetid  breath  was  on  my  face,  his  voice  was  in 

my  ear: 


THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS          57 

"Excuse  my  brusquerie,"  he  hissed;  u  but,  sir,  do 

you  suppose  — 
That  portly  man  who  passed  us  had  a  wen  upon 

his  nose?" 

And  then  at  last  it  dawned  on  me,  the  fellow  must 

be  mad; 
And  when  I  soothingly  replied :     "  I  do  not  think 

he  had," 

The  little  wizened  Spanish  man  subsided  in  his  chair, 
And  shrouded  in  his  raven  cloak  resumed  his  owlish 

stare. 
But  when  I  tried  to  slip  away  he  turned  and  glared 

at  me, 

And  oh,  that  fishlike  face  of  his  was  sinister  to  see: 
"  Forgive  me  if  I  startled  you;  of  course  you  think 

I'm  queer; 

No  doubt  you  wonder  who  I  am,  so  solitary  here; 
You    question    why    the    passers-by    I    piercingly 

review  .   .  . 
Well,  listen,  my  bibacious  friend,  I'll  tell  my  tale 

to  you. 

"  It  happened  twenty  years  ago,  and  in  another  land : 
A  maiden  young  and  beautiful,  two  suitors  for  her 

hand. 

My  rival  was  the  lucky  one;  I  vowed  I  would  repay; 
Revenge  has  mellowed  in  my  heart,  it's  rotten  ripe 

to-day. 
My  happy  rival  skipped  away,  vamoosed,  he  left 

no  trace; 


58  THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS 

And  so  I'm  waiting,  waiting  here  to  meet  him  face 

to  face; 
For  has  it  not  been  ever  said  that  all  the  world  one 

day 
Will  pass  in  pilgrimage  before  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix?  " 

"  But,  sir,"  I  made  remonstrance,  "  if  it's  twenty 

years  ago, 
You'd  scarcely  recognize  him  now,  he  must  have 

altered  so." 
The  little  wizened  Spanish  man  he  laughed  a  hideous 

laugh, 

And  from  his  cloak  he  quickly  drew  a  faded  photo- 
graph. 
"You're  right,"  said  he,  "but  there  are  traits  (oh, 

this  you  must  allow) 
That  never  change;  Lopez  was  fat,  he  must  be  fatter 

now. 

His  paunch  is  senatorial,  he  cannot  see  his  toes, 
I'm  sure  of  it;  and  then,  behold!  that  wen  upon  his 

nose. 
I'm  looking  for  a  man  like  that.     I'll  wait  and  wait 

until  .   .   ." 
"  What  will  you  do?  "  I  sharply  cried;  he  answered 

me:     "  Why,  kill ! 
He  robbed  me  of  my  happiness  —  nay,  stranger,  do 

not  start; 
I'll  firmly  and  politely  put  —  a  bullet  in  his  heart." 

And  then  that  little  Spanish  man,  with  big  cigar 
alight, 


THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS  59 

Uprose  and  shook  my  trembling  hand  and  vanished 

in  the  night. 
And  I  went  home  and  thought  of  him  and  had  a 

dreadful  dream 
Of  portly  men  with  each  a  wen,  and  woke  up  with 

a  scream. 
And  sure  enough,  next  morning,  as  I  prowled  the 

Boulevard, 
A  portly  man   with  wenny  nose   roamed  into   my 

regard; 
Then  like  a  flash  I  ran  to  him  and  clutched  him  by 

the  arm : 
"  Oh,  sir,"  said  I,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  come 

to  harm; 
But  if  your  life  you  value  aught,  I  beg,  entreat  and 

pray  — 
Don't  pass  before  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la 

Paix." 
That  portly  man   he   looked   at   me   with   such    a 

startled  air, 
Then   bolted   like    a    rabbit    down    the    rue    Mich- 

audiere. 
"  Ha !  ha !  I've  saved  a  life,"  I  thought;  and  laughed 

in  my  relief, 
And  straightway  joined  the   Spanish  man  o'er  his 

aperitif. 
And  thus  each  day  I  dodged  about  and  kept  the 

strictest  guard 

For  portly  men  with  each  a  wen  upon  the  Boulevard. 
And  then  I  hailed  my  Spanish  pal,  and  sitting  in  the 

sun, 


60  THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS 

We  ordered  many  Pernods  and  we  drank  them  every 

one. 
And  sternly  he  would  stare  and  stare  until  my  hand 

would  shake, 
And  grimly  he  would  glare  and  glare  until  my  heart 

would  quake. 
And  I  would  say:     "  Alphonso,  lad,  I  must  expos- 

tulate; 
Why  keep   alive   for  twenty  years   the   furnace  of 

your  hate? 
Perhaps  his  wedded  life  was  hell;  and  you,  at  least, 

are  free  .   .   ." 
"That's  where  you've  got  it  wrong,"  he  snarled; 

"  the  fool  she  took  was  me. 
My  rival  sneaked,  threw  up  the  sponge,  betrayed 

himself  a  churl  : 
'Twas  he  who  got  the  happiness,  I  only  got  —  the 


. 
With  that  he  looked  so  devil-like  he  made  me  creep 

and  shrink, 
And  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  buy  another 

drink. 

Now  yonder  like  a  blot  of  ink  he  sits  across  the  way, 
Upon  the  smiling  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix; 
That  little  wizened  Spanish  man,  his  face  is  ghastly 

white, 
His  eyes  are  staring,  staring  like  a  tiger's  in  the 

night. 
I  know  within  his  evil  heart  the  fires  of  hate  are 

fanned, 


THE  ABSINTHE  DRINKERS          61 

I  know  his  automatic's  ready  waiting  to  his  hand. 
I  know   a   tragedy  is  near.     I   dread,   I  have  no 

peace  .   .  . 
Oh,  don't  you  think  I  ought  to  go  and  call  upon  the 

police? 
Look  there  .  .  .  he's  rising  up  ...  my  God !     He 

leaps  from  out  his  place  .   .  . 
Yon  millionaire  from  Argentine  .   .   .  the  two  are 

face  to  face  .  .  . 
A   shot!     A  shriek!     A  heavy  fall!     A  huddled 

heap !     Oh,  see 
The  little  wizened  Spanish  man  is  dancing  in  his 

glee.  ... 
I'm  sick  .   .  .  I'm  faint  .  .  .  I'm  going  mad.  .  .  . 

Oh,  please  take  me  away  .   .   . 
There's  BLOOD  upon  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la 

Paix. 


And  now  I'll  leave  my  work  and  sally  forth.  The  city 
is  en  fete.  I'll  join  the  crowd  and  laugh  and  sing  with  the 
best. 


The  sunshine  seeks  my  little  room 
To  tell  me  Paris  streets  are  gay; 
That  children  cry  the  lily  bloom 
All  up  and  down  the  leafy  way; 
That  half  the  town  is  mad  with  May, 
With  flame  of  flag  and  boom  of  bell: 
For  Carnival  is  King  to-day; 
So  pen  and  page,  awhile  farewell. 


BOOK  TWO 
EARLY  SUMMER 


PARC  MONTSOURIS 

June  1914. 
THE  RELEASE 

To-day  within  a  grog-shop  near 
I  saw  a  newly  captured  linnet, 
Who  beat  against  his  cage  in  fear, 
And  fell  exhausted  every  minute; 
And  when  I  asked  the  fellow  there 
If  he  to  sell  the  bird  were  willing, 
He  told  me  with  a  careless  air 
That  I  could  have  it  for  a  shilling. 

And  so  I  bought  it,  cage  and  all 
(Although  I  went  without  my  dinner) , 
And  where  some  trees  were  fairly  tall 
And  houses  shrank  and  smoke  was  thinner, 
The  tiny  door  I  open  threw, 
As  down  upon  the  grass  I  sank  me : 
Poor  little  chap !     How  quick  he  flew  .  .  . 
He  didn't  even  wait  to  thank  me. 

Life's  like  a  cage;  we  beat  the  bars, 
We  bruise  our  breasts,  we  struggle  vainly; 
Up  to  the  glory  of  the  stars 
We  strain  with  flutterings  ungainly. 

65 


66  THE  WEE  SHOP 

And  then  —  God  opens  wide  the  door; 
Our  wondrous  wings  are  arched  for  flying; 
We  poise,  we  part,  we  sing,  we  soar  .   .  . 
Light,  freedom,  love.  .  .  .  Fools  call  it  —  Dying. 


Yes,  that  wretched  little  bird  haunted  me.  I  had  to 
let  it  go.  Since  I  have  seized  my  own  liberty  I  am  a  fanatic 
for  freedom.  It  is  now  a  year  ago  I  launched  on  my  great 
adventure.  I  have  had  hard  times,  been  hungry,  cold, 
weary.  I  have  worked  harder  than  ever  I  did  and  dis- 
couragement has  slapped  me  on  the  face.  Yet  the  year 
has  been  the  happiest  of  my  life. 

And  all  because  I  am  free.  By  reason  of  filthy  money 
no  one  can  say  to  me:  Do  this,  or  do  that.  "Master" 
doesn't  exist  in  my  vocabulary.  I  can  look  any  man  in  the 
face  and  tell  him  to  go  to  the  devil.  I  belong  to  myself. 
I  am  not  for  sale.  It's  glorious  to  feel  like  that.  It  sweet- 
ens the  dry  crust  and  warms  the  heart  in  the  icy  wind.  For 
that  I  will  hunger  and  go  threadbare;  for  that  I  will  live 
austerely  and  deny  myself  all  pleasure.  After  health,  the 
best  thing  in  life  is  freedom. 

Here  is  the  last  of  my  ballads.  It  is  by  way  of  being  an 
experiment.  Its  theme  is  commonplace,  its  language  that 
of  everyday.  It  is  a  bit  of  realism  in  rhyme. 


THE  WEE  SHOP 

She  risked  her  all,  they  told  me,  bravely  sinking 
The  pinched  economies  of  thirty  years; 
And  there  the  little  shop  was,  meek  and  shrinking, 
The  sum  of  all  her  dreams  and  hopes  and  fears. 


THE  WEE  SHOP  67 

Ere  it  was  opened  I  would  see  them  in  it, 
The  gray-haired  dame,  the  daughter  with  her  crutch; 
So  fond,  so  happy,  hoarding  every  minute, 
Like  artists,  for  the  final  tender  touch. 

The  opening  day!     I'm  sure  that  to  their  seeming 
Was  never  shop  so  wonderful  as  theirs; 
With  pyramids  of  jam-jars  rubbed  to  gleaming; 
Such  vivid  cans  of  peaches,  prunes  and  pears; 
And  chocolate,  and  biscuits  in  glass  cases, 
And  bon-bon  bottles,  many-hued  and  bright; 
Yet  nothing  half  so  radiant  as  their  faces, 
Their  eyes  of  hope,  excitement  and  delight. 

I  entered:  how  they  waited  all  a-flutter! 

How  awkwardly  they  weighed  my  acid-drops! 

And  then  with  all  the  thanks  a  tongue  could  utter 

They  bowed  me  from  the  kindliest  of  shops. 

I'm  sure  that  night  their  customers  they  num- 
bered; 

Discussed  them  all  in  happy,  breathless  speech; 

And  though  quite  worn  and  weary,  ere  they  slum- 
bered, 

Sent  heavenward  a  little  prayer  for  each. 

And  so  I  watched  with  interest  redoubled 

That  little  shop,  spent  in  it  all  I  had; 

And  when  I  saw  it  empty  I  was  troubled, 

And  when  I  saw  them  busy  I  was  glad. 

And  when  I  dared  to  ask  how  things  were  going, 

They  told  me,  with  a  fine  and  gallant  smile : 


68  THE  WEE  SHOP 

"  Not  badly  .  .  .  slow  at  first  .  .  .  There's  never 

knowing  .  .  . 
'Twill  surely  pick  up  in  a  little  while." 

I'd  often  see  them  through  the  winter  weather, 
Behind  the  shutters  by  a  light's  faint  speck, 
Poring  o'er  books,  their  faces  close  together, 
The  lame  girl's  arm  around  her  mother's  neck. 
They  dressed  their  windows  not  one  time  but  twenty, 
Each  change  more  pinched,  more  desperately  neat; 
Alas !  I  wondered  if  behind  that  plenty 
The  two  who  owned  it  had  enough  to  eat. 

Ah,  who  would  dare  to  sing  of  tea  and  coffee? 
The  sadness  of  a  stock  unsold  and  dead; 
The  petty  tragedy  of  melting  toffee, 
The  sordid  pathos  of  stale  gingerbread. 
Ignoble  themes  !     And  yet  —  those  haggard  faces ! 
Within  that  little  shop.   .   .  .  Oh,  here  I  say 
One  does  not  need  to  look  in  lofty  places 
For  tragic  themes,  they're  round  us  every  day. 

And  so  I  saw  their  agony,  their  fighting, 
Their  eyes  of  fear,  their  heartbreak,  their  despair; 
And  there  the  little  shop  is,  black  and  blighting, 
And  all  the  world  goes  by  and  does  not  care. 
They  say  she  sought  her  old  employer's  pity, 
Content  to  take  the  pittance  he  would  give. 
The  lame  girl?  yes,  she's  working  in  the  city; 
She  coughs  a  lot  —  she  hasn't  long  to  live. 


PHILISTINE  AND  BOHEMIAN        69 

Last  night  MacBean  introduced  me  to  Saxon  Dane  the 
Poet.  Truly,  he  is  more  like  a  blacksmith  than  a  Bard  — 
a  big  bearded  man  whose  black  eyes  brood  somberly  or  flash 
with  sudden  fire.  We  talked  of  Walt  Whitman,  and  then 
of  others. 

"  The  trouble  with  poetry,"  he  said,  "  is  that  it  is  too 
exalted.  It  has  a  phraseology  of  its  own;  it  selects  themes 
that  are  quite  outside  of  ordinary  experience.  As  a  medium 
of  expression  it  fails  to  reach  the  great  mass  of  the  people." 

Then  he  added :  "  To  hell  with  the  great  mass  of  the 
people!  What  have  they  got  to  do  with  it?  Write  to 
please  yourself,  as  if  not  a  single  reader  existed.  The  mo- 
ment a  man  begins  to  be  conscious  of  an  audience  he  is  ar- 
tistically damned.  You're  not  a  Poet,  I  hope  ?  " 

I  meekly  assured  him  I  was  a  mere  maker  of  verse. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  better  good  verse  than  middling  poetry. 
And  maybe  even  the  humblest  of  rhymes  has  its  uses.  Happi- 
ness is  happiness,  whether  it  be  inspired  by  a  Rossetti  sonnet 
or  a  ballad  by  G.  R.  Sims.  Let  each  one  who  has  something 
to  say,  say  it  in  the  best  way  he  can,  and  abide  the  result.  .  .  . 
After  all,"  he  went  on,  "what  does  it  matter?  We  are 
living  in  a  pygmy  day.  With  Tennyson  and  Browning  the 
line  of  great  poets  passed  away,  perhaps  for  ever.  The 
world  to-day  is  full  of  little  minstrels,  who  echo  one  an- 
other and  who  pipe  away  tunefully  enough.  But  with  one 
exception  they  do  not  matter." 

I  dared  to  ask  who  was  his  one  exception.  He  answered, 
"  Myself,  of  course." 

Here's  a  bit  of  light  verse  which  it  amused  me  to  write 
to-day,  as  I  sat  in  the  sun  on  the  terrace  of  the  Closerie 
de  Lilas: 


70        PHILISTINE  AND  BOHEMIAN 


THE  PHILISTINE  AND  THE  BOHEMIAN 

She  was  a  Philistine  spick  and  span, 

He  was  a  bold  Bohemian. 

She  had  the  mode,  and  the  last  at  that; 

He  had  a  cape  and  a  brigand  hat. 

She  was  so  riant  and  chic  and  trim; 

He  was  so  shaggy,  unkempt  and  grim. 

On  the  rue  de  la  Paix  she  was  wont  to  shine; 

The  rue  de  la  Gaite  was  more  his  line. 

She  doted  on  Barclay  and  Dell  and  Caine; 

He  quoted  Malarme  and  Paul  Verlaine. 

She  was  a  triumph  at  Tango  teas; 

At  Vorticist's  suppers  he  sought  to  please. 

She  thought  that  Franz  Lehar  was  utterly  great; 

Of  Strauss  and  Stravinski  he'd  piously  prate. 

She  loved  elegance,  he  loved  art; 

They  were  as  wide  as  the  poles  apart : 

Yet  —  Cupid  and  Caprice  are  hand  and  glove  — 

They  met  at  a  dinner,  they  fell  in  love. 

Home  he  went  to  his  garret  bare, 
Thrilling  with  rapture,  hope,  despair. 
Swift  he  gazed  in  his  looking-glass, 
Made  a  grimace  and  murmured:     "Ass!" 
Seized  his  scissors  and  fiercely  sheared, 
Severed  his  buccaneering  beard; 
Grabbed  his  hair,  and  clip !  clip !  clip ! 
Off  came  a  bunch  with  every  snip. 
Ran  to  a  tailor's  in  startled  state, 


PHILISTINE  AND  BOHEMIAN        71 

Suits  a  dozen  commanded  straight; 
Coats  and  overcoats,  pants  in  pairs, 
Everything  that  a  dandy  wears; 
Socks  and  collars,  and  shoes  and  ties, 
Everything  that  a  dandy  buys. 
Chums  looked  at  him  with  wondering  stare, 
Fancied  they'd  seen  him  before  somewhere; 
A  Brummell,  a  D'Orsay,  a  beau  so  fine, 
A  shining,  immaculate  Philistine. 

Home  she  went  in  a  raptured  daze, 
Looked  in  a  mirror  with  startled  gaze, 
Didn't  seem  to  be  pleased  at  all; 
Savagely  muttered:     "  Insipid  Doll!  " 
Clutched  her  hair  and  a  pair  of  shears, 
Cropped  and  bobbed  it  behind  the  ears; 
Aimed  at  a  wan  and  willowy-necked 
Sort  of  a  Holman  Hunt  effect; 
Robed  in  subtile  and  sage-green  tones, 
Like  the  dames  of  Rossetti  and  F.  B.  Jones; 
Girdled  her  garments  billowing  wide, 
Moved  with  an  undulating  glide; 
All  her  frivolous  friends  forsook, 
Cultivated  a  soulful  look; 
Gushed  in  a  voice  with  a  creamy  throb 
Over  some  weirdly  Futurist  daub  — 
Did  all,  in  short,  that  a  woman  can 
To  be  a  consummate  Bohemian. 

A  year  went  past  with  its  hopes  and  fears, 
A  year  that  seemed  like  a  dozen  years. 


72        PHILISTINE  AND  BOHEMIAN 

They  met  once  more.  .  .  .  Oh,  at  last !     At  last ! 

They  rushed  together,  they  stopped  aghast. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  blank  dismay, 

They  simply  hadn't  a  word  to  say. 

He  thought  with  a  shiver:    "  Can  this  be  she?  " 

She  thought  with  a  shudder:  "  This  can't  be  he?  " 

This  simpering  dandy,  so  sleek  and  spruce ; 

This  languorous  lily  in  garments  loose; 

They  sought  to  brace  from  the  awful  shock: 

Taking  a  seat,  they  tried  to  talk. 

She  spoke  of  Bergson  and  Pater's  prose, 

He  prattled  of  dances  and  ragtime  shows; 

She  purred  of  pictures,  Matisse,  Cezanne, 

His  tastes  to  the  girls  of  Kirchner  ran; 

She  raved  of  Tschaikowsky  and  Cassar  Franck, 

He  owned  that  he  was  a  jazz-band  crank! 

They  made  no  headway.     Alas !  alas ! 

He  thought  her  a  bore,  she  thought  him  an  ass. 

And  so  they  arose  and  hurriedly  fled; 

Perish  Illusion,  Romance,  you're  dead. 

He  loved  elegance,  she  loved  art, 

Better  at  once  to  part,  to  part. 

And  what  is  the  moral  of  all  this  rot? 
Don't  try  to  be  what  you  know  you're  not. 
And  if  you're  made  on  a  muttonish  plan, 
Don't  seek  to  seem  a  Bohemian; 
And  if  to  the  goats  your  feet  incline, 
Don't  try  to  pass  for  a  Philistine. 


THE  BOHEMIAN  DREAMS  73 

II 

A  SMALL  CAFE  IN  A  SIDE  STREET, 

June  1914. 

THE  POHEMIAN  DREAMS 

Because  my  overcoat's  in  pawn, 
I  choose  to  take  my  glass 
Within  a  little  bistro  on 
The  rue  du  Montparnasse; 
The  dusty  bins  with  bottles  shine, 
The  counter's  lined  with  zinc, 
And  there  I  sit  and  drink  my  wine, 
And  think  and  think  and  think. 

I  think  of  hoary  old  Stamboul, 
Of  Moslem  and  of  Greek, 
Of  Persian  in  coat  of  wool, 
Of  Kurd  and  Arab  sheikh; 
Of  all  the  types  of  weal  and  woe, 
And  as  I  raise  my  glass, 
Across  Galata  bridge  I  know 
They  pass  and  pass  and  pass. 

I  think  of  citron-trees  aglow, 
Of  fan-palms  shading  down, 
Of  sailors  dancing  heel  and  toe 
With  wenches  black  and  brown; 
And  though  it's  all  an  ocean  far 
From  Yucatan  to  France, 


74  THE  BOHEMIAN  DREAMS 

I'll  bet  beside  the  old  bazaar 
They  dance  and  dance  and  dance. 

I  think  of  Monte  Carlo,  where 
The  pallid  croupiers  call, 
And  in  the  gorgeous,  guilty  air 
The  gamblers  watch  the  ball; 
And  as  I  flick  away  the  foam 
With  which  my  beer  is  crowned, 
The  wheels  beneath  the  gilded  dome 
Go  round  and  round  and  round. 

I  think  of  vast  Niagara, 
Those  gulfs  of  foam  a-shine, 
Whose  mighty  roar  would  stagger  a 
More  prosy  bean  than  mine; 
And  as  the  hours  I  idly  spend 
Against  a  greasy  wall, 
I  know  that  green  the  waters  bend 
And  fall  and  fall  and  fall. 

I  think  of  Nijni  Novgorod 

And  Jews  who  never  rest; 

And  womenfolk  with  spade  and  hod 

Who  slave  in  Buda-Pest ; 

Of  squat  and  sturdy  Japanese 

Who  pound  the  paddy  soil, 

And  as  I  loaf  and  smoke  at  ease 

They  toil  and  toil  and  toil. 

I  think  of  shrines  in  Hindustan, 
Of  cloistral  glooms  in  Spain, 


THE  BOHEMIAN  DREAMS  75 

Of  minarets  in  Ispahan, 

Of  St.  Sophia's  fane, 

Of  convent  towers  in  Palestine, 

Of  temples  in  Cathay, 

And  as  I  stretch  and  sip  my  wine 

They  pray  and  pray  and  pray. 

And  so  my  dreams  I  dwell  within, 

And  visions  come  and  go, 

And  life  is  passing  like  a  Cin- 

Ematographic  Show; 

Till  just  as  surely  as  my  pipe 

Is  underneath  my  nose, 

Amid  my  visions  rich  and  ripe 

I  doze  and  doze  and  doze. 


Alas!  it  is  too  true.  Once  more  I  am  counting  the  cop- 
pers, living  on  the  ragged  edge.  My  manuscripts  come  back 
to  me  like  boomerangs,  and  I  have  not  the  postage,  far  less 
the  heart,  to  send  them  out  again. 

MacBean  seems  to  take  an  interest  in  my  struggles.  I 
often  sit  in  his  room  in  the  rue  Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, 
smoking  and  sipping  whisky  into  the  small  hours.  He 
is  an  old  hand,  who  knows  the  market  and  frankly  manu- 
factures for  it. 

"  Give  me  short  pieces,"  he  says;  "  things  of  three  verses 
that  will  fill  a  blank  half-page  of  a  magazine.  Let  them  be 
sprightly,  and,  if  possible,  have  a  snapper  at  the  end.  Give 
me  that  sort  of  article.  I  think  I  can  place  it  for  you." 

Then  he  looked  through  a  lot  of  my  verse:  "This  is 
the  kind  of  stuff  I  might  be  able  to  sell,"  he  said: 


76  A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY 


A  DOMESTIC  TRAGEDY 

Clorinda  met  me  on  the  way 
As  I  came  from  the  train; 
Her  face  was  anything  but  gay, 
In  fact,  suggested  pain. 
"  Oh  hubby,  hubby  dear!  "  she  cried, 
"  I've  awful  news  to  tell.   .   .   ." 
"  What  is  it,  darling?  "  I  replied; 
"  Your  mother  —  is  she  well?  " 


"  Qh  no !  oh  no !  it  is  not  that, 

It's  something  else,"  she  wailed, 

My  heart  was  beating  pit-a-pat, 

My  ruddy  visage  paled. 

Like  lightning  flash  in  heaven's  dome 

The  fear  within  me  woke : 

"  Don't  say,"  I  cried,  "  our  little  home 

Has  all  gone  up  in  smoke !  " 


She  shook  her  head.     Oh,  swift  I  clasped 

And  held  her  to  my  breast; 

"  The  children!     Tell  me  quick,"  I  gasped, 

"  Believe  me,  it  is  best." 

Then,  then  she  spoke;  'mid  sobs  I  caught 

These  words  of  woe  divine : 

"  It's  coo-coo-cook  has  gone  and  bought 

A  new  hat  just  like  mine" 


THE  PENCIL  SELLER  77 

At  present  1  am  living  on  bread  and  milk.  By  doing 
this  I  can  rub  along  for  another  ten  days.  The  thought 
pleases  me.  As  long  as  I  have  a  crust  I  am  master  of  my 
destiny.  Some  day,  when  I  am  rich  and  famous,  I  shall 
look  back  on  all  this  with  regret.  Yet  I  think  I  shall  always 
remain  a  Bohemian.  I  hate  regularity.  The  clock  was 
never  made  for  me.  I  want  to  eat  when  I  am  hungry, 
sleep  when  I  am  weary,  drink  —  well,  any  old  time. 

I  prefer  to  be  alone.  Company  is  a  constraint  on  my 
spirit.  I  never  make  an  engagement  if  I  can  avoid  it.  To 
do  so  is  to  put  a  mortgage  on  my  future.  I  like  to  be  able 
to  rise  in  the  morning  with  the  thought  that  the  hours  before 
me  are  all  mine,  to  spend  in  my  own  way  —  to  work,  to 
dream,  to  watch  the  unfolding  drama  of  life. 

Here  is  another  of  my  ballads.  It  is  longer  than  most, 
and  gave  me  more  trouble,  though  none  the  better  for  that. 


THE  PENCIL  SELLER 

A  pencil,  sir;  a  penny  —  won't  you  buy? 
I'm  cold  and  wet  and  tired,  a  sorry  plight; 
Don't  turn  your  back,  sir;  take  one  just  to  try; 
I  haven't  made  a  single  sale  to-night. 
Oh,  thank  you,  sir;  but  take  the  pencil  too; 
I'm  not  a  beggar,  I'm  a  business  man. 
Pencils  I  deal  in,  red  and  black  and  blue; 
It's  hard,  but  still  I  do  the  best  I  can. 
Most  days  I  make  enough  to  pay  for  bread, 
A  cup  o'  coffee,  stretching  room  at  night. 
One  needs  so  little  —  to  be  warm  and  fed, 
A  hole  to  kennel  in  —  oh,  one's  all  right  .  .  . 


78  THE  PENCIL  SELLER 

Excuse  me,  you're  a  painter,  are  you  not? 
I  saw  you  looking  at  that  dealer's  show, 
The  croutes  he  has  for  sale,  a  shabby  lot  — 
What  do  I  know  of  Art?     What  do  I  know  .   .  . 
Well,  look !     That  David  Strong  so  well  displayed, 
'  White  Sorcery  "  it's  called,  all  gossamer, 
And  pale  moon-magic  and  a  dancing  maid 
(You  like  the  little  elfin  face  of  her?)  — 
That's  good;  but  still,  the  picture  as  a  whole, 
The  values, —  Pah  !     He  never  painted  worse ; 
Perhaps  because  his  fire  was  lacking  coal, 
His  cupboard  bare,  no  money  in  his  purse. 
Perhaps  .  .  .  they  say  he  labored  hard  and  long, 
And  see  now,  in  the  harvest  of  his  fame, 
When  round  his  pictures  people  gape  and  throng, 
A  scurvy  dealer  sells  this  on  his  name. 
A  wretched  rag,  wrung  out  of  want  and  woe; 
A  soulless  daub,  not  David  Strong  a  bit, 
Unworthy  of  his  art.  .   .   .  How  should  I  know? 
How  should  I  know?     I'm  Strong  —  I  painted  it. 

There  now,  I  didn't  mean  to  let  that  out. 

It  came  in  spite  of  me  —  aye,  stare  and  stare. 

You  think  I'm  lying,  crazy,  drunk,  no  doubt  — 

Think  what  you  like,  it's  neither  here  nor  there. 

It's  hard  to  tell  so  terrible  a  truth, 

To  gain  to  glory,  yet  be  such  as  I. 

It's  true;  that  picture's  mine,  done  in  my  youth, 

Up  in  a  garret  near  the  Paris  sky. 

The  child's  my  daughter;  aye,  she  posed  for  me. 

That's  why  I  come  and  sit  here  every  night. 


79 


The  painting's  bad,  but  still  —  oh,  still  I  see 
Her  little  face  all  laughing  in  the  light. 
So  now  you  understand. —  I  live  in  fear 
Lest  one  like  you  should  carry  it  away; 
A  poor,  pot-boiling  thing,  but  oh,  how  dear! 
"  Don't  let  them  buy  it,  pitying  God!  "  I  pray! 
And  hark  ye,  sir  —  sometimes  my  brain's  awhirl. 
Some  night  I'll  crash  into  that  window  pane 
And  snatch  my  picture  back,  my  little  girl, 
And  run  and  run.  .  .  . 

I'm  talking  wild  again; 

A  crab  can't  run.     I'm  crippled,  withered,  lame, 
Palsied,  as  good  as  dead  all  down  one  side. 
No  warning  had  I  when  the  evil  came : 
It  struck  me  down  in  all  my  strength  and  pride. 
Triumph  was  mine,  I  thrilled  with  perfect  power; 
Honor  was  mine,  Fame's  laurel  touched  my  brow; 
Glory  was  mine  —  within  a  little  hour 
I  was  a  god  and  .  .  .  what  you  find  me  now. 

My  child,  that  little,  laughing  girl  you  see, 

She  was  my  nurse  for  all  ten  weary  years; 

Her  joy,  her  hope,  her  youth  she  gave  for  me; 

Her  very  smiles  were  masks  to  hide  her  tears. 

And  I,  my  precious  art,  so  rich,  so  rare, 

Lost,  lost  to  me  —  what  could  my  heart  but  break! 

Oh,  as  I  lay  and  wrestled  with  despair, 

I  would  have  killed  myself  but  for  her  sake.  .   .  . 

By  luck  I  had  some  pictures  I  could  sell, 

And  so  we  fought  the  wolf  back  from  the  door; 


8o  THE  PENCIL  SELLER 

She  painted  too,  aye,  wonderfully  well. 

We  often  dreamed  of  brighter  days  in  store. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  she  seemed  to  fail; 

I  saw  the  shadows  darken  round  her  eyes. 

So  tired  she  was,  so  sorrowful,  so  pale, 

And  oh,  there  came  a  day  she  could  not  rise. 

The  doctor  looked  at  her;  he  shook  his  head, 

And  spoke  of  wine  and  grapes  and  Southern  air: 

"  If  you  can  get  her  out  of  this,"  he  said, 

"  She'll  have  a  fighting  chance  with  proper  care." 

"  With  proper  care !  "     When  he  had  gone  away, 
I  sat  there,  trembling,  twitching,  dazed  with  grief. 
Under  my  old  and  ragged  coat  she  lay, 
Our  room  was  bare  and  cold  beyond  belief. 
"  Maybe,"  I  thought,  "  I  still  can  paint  a  bit, 
Some  lilies,  landscape,  anything  at  all." 
Alas!     My  brush,  I  could  not  steady  it. 
Down  from  my  fumbling  hand  I  let  it  fall. 
'  With  proper  care  " —  how  could  I  give  her  that, 
Half   of  me  dead?  ...  I   crawled   down  to   the 

street. 

Cowering  beside  the  wall,  I  held  my  hat 
And  begged  of  every  one  I  chanced  to  meet. 
I  got  some  pennies,  bought  her  milk  and  bread, 
And  so  I  fought  to  keep  the  Doom  away; 
And  yet  I  saw  with  agony  of  dread 
My  dear  one  sinking,  sinking  day  by  day. 
And  then  I  was  awakened  in  the  night : 
"  Please  take  my  hands,  I'm  cold,"  I  heard  her  sigh; 
And  soft  she  whispered,  as  she  held  me  tight: 


8i 


"  Oh  daddy,  we've  been  happy,  you  and  I !  " 

I  do  not  think  she  suffered  any  pain, 

She  breathed  so  ciuietly  .  .   .  but  though  I  tried, 

I  could  not  warm  her  little  hands  again : 

And  so  there  in  the  icy  dark  she  died.  .   .  . 

The  dawn  came  groping  in  with  fingers  gray 

And  touched  me,  sitting  silent  as  a  stone; 

I  kissed  those  piteous  lips,  as  cold  as  clay  — 

I  did  not  cry,  I  did  not  even  moan. 

At  last  I  rose,  groped  down  the  narrow  stair; 

An  evil  fog  was  oozing  from  the  sky; 

Half-crazed  I  stumbled  on,  I  knew  not  where, 

Like  phantoms  were  the  folks  that  passed  me  by. 

How  long  I  wandered  thus  I  do  not  know, 

But  suddenly  I  halted,  stood  stock-still  — 

Beside  a  door  that  spilled  a  golden  glow 

I  saw  a  name,  my  name,  upon  a  bill. 

"  A  Sale  of  Famous  Pictures,"  so  it  read, 

"  A  Notable  Collection,  each  a  gem, 

Distinguished  Works  of  Art  by  painters  dead." 

The  folks  were  going  in,  I  followed  them. 

I  stood  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 

I  only  hoped  that  none  might  notice  me. 

Soon,  soon  I  heard  them  call  my  name  aloud: 

"  A  *  David  Strong,'  his  Fete  in  Brittany." 

(A  brave  big  picture  that,  the  best  I've  done, 

It  glowed  and  kindled  half  the  hall  away, 

With  all  its  memories  of  sea  and  sun, 

Of  pipe  and  bowl,  of  joyous  work  and  play. 

I  saw  the  sardine  nets  blue  as  the  sky, 

I  saw  the  nut-brown  fisher-boats  put  out.) 


$2 

"  Five  hundred  pounds!  "  rapped  out  a  voice  near 

by; 
"  Six  hundred!  "  "  Seven!  "  "  Eight!  "     And  then 

a  shout: 
"A   thousand   pounds!"     Oh,    how   I    thrilled   to 

hear! 

Oh,  how  the  bids  went  up  by  leaps,  by  bounds! 
And  then  a  silence;  then  the  auctioneer: 
"It's     going!     Going!     Gone!      Three     thousand 

pounds! " 

Three  thousand  pounds !     A  frenzy  leapt  in  me. 
"  That  picture's  mine,"  I  cried;  "  I'm  David  Strong. 
I  painted  it,  this  famished  wretch  you  see; 
I  did  it,  I,  and  sold  it  for  a  song. 
And  in  a  garret  three  small  hours  ago 
My  daughter  died  for  want  of  Christian  care. 
Look,  look  at  me !   ...  Is  it  to  mock  my  woe 
You  pay  three  thousand  for  my  picture  there?  "... 

0  God!  I  stumbled  blindly  from  the  hall; 
The  city  crashed  on  me,  the  fiendish  sounds 
Of  cruelty  and  strife,  but  over  all 

"  Three  thousand  pounds!  "  I  heard;  "  Three  thou- 
sand pounds!  " 

There,  that's  my  story,  sir;  it  isn't  gay. 

Tales  of  the  Poor  are  never  very  bright  .  .  . 

You'll  look  for  me  next  time  you  pass  this  way  .  .  . 

1  hope  you'll  find  me,  sir ;  good-night,  good-night. 


FI-FI  IN  BED  83 

III 

THE  LUXEMBOURG, 

June  1914. 

On  a  late  afternoon,  when  the  sunlight  is  mellow  on  the 
leaves,  I  often  sit  near  the  Fontaine  de  Media's,  and  watch 
the  children  at  their  play.  Sometimes  I  make  bits  of  verse 
about  them,  such  as: 

FI-FI  IN  BED 

Up  into  the  sky  I  stare; 
All  the  little  stars  I  see; 
And  I  know  that  God  is  there 
O,  how  lonely  He  must  be ! 

Me,  I  laugh  and  leap  all  day, 
Till  my  head  begins  to  nod; 
He's  so  great,  He  cannot  play: 
I  am  glad  I  am  not  God. 

Poor  kind  God  upon  His  throne, 
Up  there  in  the  sky  so  blue, 
Always,  always  all  alone  .   .   . 
"  Please,  dear  God,  I  pity  You." 

Or  else,  sitting  on  the  terrace  of  a  cafe  on  the  Boul'  Mich', 
I  sip  slowly  a  Dubonnet  or  a  Bhyrr,  and  the  charm  of  the 
Quarter  possesses  me.  I  think  of  men  who  have  lived  and 
loved  there,  who  have  groveled  and  gloried,  who  have  drunk 
deep  and  died.  And  then  I  scribble  things  like  this: 


84  GODS  IN  THE  GUTTER 

GODS  IN  THE  GUTTER 

I  dreamed  I  saw  three  demi-gods  who  in  a  cafe  sat, 
And  one  was  small  and  crapulous,  and  one  was  large 

and  fat; 
And  one  was  eaten  up  with  vice  and  verminous  at 

that. 

The  first  he  spoke  of  secret  sins,  and  gems  and  per- 
fumes rare; 

And  velvet  cats  and  courtesans  voluptuously  fair: 
"  Who  is  the  Sybarite?  "  I  asked.     They  answered: 
"  Baudelaire." 

The  second  talked  in  tapestries,  by  fantasy  beguiled; 
As  frail  as  bubbles,  hard  as  gems,  his  pageantries  he 

piled; 

'  This  Lord  of  Language,  who  is  he?  "  They  whis- 
pered "  Oscar  Wilde." 

The  third  was  staring  at  his  glass  from  out  abysmal 
pain; 

With  tears  his  eyes  were  bitten  in  beneath  his  bulb- 
ous brain. 

"Who  is  the  sodden  wretch?"  I  said.  They  told 
me:  "  Paul  Verlaine." 

Oh,  Wilde,  Verlaine  and  Baudelaire,  their  lips  were 

wet  with  wine; 
Oh  poseur,  pimp  and  libertine !     Oh  cynic,  sot  and 

swine ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO       85 

Oh  votaries  of  velvet  vice!   .   .  .  Oh  gods  of  light 
divine ! 

Oh  Baudelaire,  Verlaine  and  Wilde,  they  knew  the 

sinks  of  shame; 
Their  sun-aspiring  wings  they  scorched  at  passion's 

altar  flame; 
Yet  lo !    enthroned,   enskied  they  stand,   Immortal 

Sons  of  Fame. 

I  dreamed  I  saw  three  demi-gods  who  walked  with 

feet  of  clay, 

With  cruel  crosses  on  their  backs,  along  a  miry  way; 
Who  climbed  and  climbed  the  bitter  steep  to  which 

men  turn  and  pray. 

And  while  I  am  on  the  subject  of  the  Quarter,  let  me 
repeat  this,  which  is  included  in  my  Ballads  of  the  Boule- 
vards : 

THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO 

We're  taking  Marie  Toro  to  her  home  in  Pere-La- 
Chaise; 

We're  taking  Marie  Toro  to  her  last  resting-place. 

Behold !  her  hearse  is  hung  with  wreaths  till  every- 
thing is  hid 

Except  the  blossoms  heaping  high  upon  her  coffin  lid. 

A  week  ago  she  roamed  the  street,  a  draggle  and  a 
slut, 

A  by-word  of  the  Boulevard  and  everybody's  butt; 


86       THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO 

A  week  ago  she  haunted  us,  we  heard  her  whining 

cry, 
We  brushed  aside  the  broken  blooms  she  pestered  us 

to  buy; 
A  week  ago  she  had  not  where  to  rest  her  weary 

head  .  .  . 
But  now,  oh,  follow,  follow  on,  for  Marie  Toro's 

dead. 

Oh  Marie,  she  was  once  a  queen  —  ah  yes,  a  queen 

of  queens. 

High-throned  above  the  Carnival  she  held  her  splen- 
did sway. 
For  four-and-twenty  crashing  hours  she  knew  what 

glory  means, 
The  cheers  of  half  a  million  throats,  the  dellre  of  a 

day. 

Yet  she  was  only  one  of  us,  a  little  sewing-girl, 
Though  far  the  loveliest  and  best  of  all  our  laughing 

band; 
Then  Fortune  beckoned;  off  she  danced,  amid  the 

dizzy  whirl, 
And  we  who  once  might  kiss  her  cheek  were  proud  to 

kiss  her  hand. 
For  swiftly  as  a  star  she  soared;  she  had  her  every 

wish; 
We  saw  her  roped  with  pearls  of  price,  with  princes 

at  her  call; 
And  yet,  and  yet  I  think  her  dreams  were  of  the  old 

Boul'  Mich', 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO       87 

And  yet  I'm  sure  within  her  heart  she  loved  us  best 
of  all. 

For  one  night  in  the  Purple  Pig,  upon  the  rue  Saint- 
Jacques, 

We    laughed    and    quaffed  ...   a    limousine    came 
swishing  to  the  door; 

Then   Raymond  Jolicoeur  cried   out:    "It's  Queen 
Marie  come  back, 

In  satin  clad  to  make  us  glad,  and  witch  our  hearts 
once  more." 

But  no,  her  face  was  strangely  sad,  and  at  the  eve- 
ning's end : 

"  Dear  lads,"  she  said;  "  I  love  you  all,  and  when 
I'm  far  away, 

Remember,    oh,    remember,    little    Marie    is    your 
friend, 

And  though  the  world  may  lie  between,  I'm  coming 
back  some  day." 

And  so  she  went,  and  many  a  boy  who's  fought  his 
way  to  Fame, 

Can  look  back  on  the  struggle  of  his  garret  days  and 
bless 

The  loyal  heart,  the  tender  hand,  the  Providence 
that  came 

To  him  and  all  in  hour  of  need,  in  sickness  and  dis- 
tress. 

Time  passed  away.     She  won  their  hearts  in  Lon- 
don, Moscow,  Rome; 

They  worshiped  her  in  Argentine,   adored  her  in 
Brazil; 


88   THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO 

We  smoked  our  pipes  and  wondered  when  she  might 

be  coming  home, 
And  then  we  learned  the  luck  had  turned,  the  things 

were  going  ill. 
Her  health  had  failed,  her  beauty  paled,  her  lovers 

fled  away; 
And  some  one  saw  her  in  Peru,  a  common  drab  at 

last. 
So  years,  went  by,  and  faces  changed;  our  beards 

were  sadly  gray, 
And  Marie  Toro's  name  became  an  echo  of  the  past. 

You  know  that  old  and  withered  man,  that  derelict 

of  art, 
Who  for  a  paltry  franc  will  make  a  crayon  sketch  of 

you? 
In  slouching  hat  and  shabby  cloak  he  looks  and  is  the 

part, 

A  sodden  old  Bohemian,  without  a  single  sou. 
A  boon  companion  of  the  days  of  Rimbaud  and  Ver- 

laine, 
He  broods  and  broods,  and  chews  the  cud  of  bitter 

souvenirs; 
Beneath  his  mop   of  grizzled  hair  his  cheeks   are 

gouged  with  pain, 
The  saffron  sockets  of  his  eyes  are  hollowed  out 

with  tears. 
Well,  one  night  in  the  D'Harcourt's  din  I  saw  him 

in  his  place, 
When  suddenly  the  door  was  swung,  a  woman  halted 

there ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO       89 

A  woman  cowering  like  a  dog,  with  white  and  hag- 
gard face, 

A  broken  creature,  bent  of  spine,  a  daughter  of 
Despair. 

She  looked  and  looked,  as  to  her  breast  she  held 

some  withered  bloom; 

'  Too  late !  Too  late !  .  .  .  they  all  are  dead  and 
gone,"  I  heard  her  say. 

And  once  again  her  weary  eyes  went  round  and 
round  the  room; 

"  Not  one  of  all  I  used  to  know  .  .  ."  she  turned 
to  go  away  .  .  . 

But  quick  I  saw  the  old  man  start:  "  Ah  no!  "  he 
cried,  "  not  all. 

Oh  Marie  Toro,  queen  of  queens,  don't  you  remem- 
ber Paul?" 

"  Oh  Marie,  Marie  Toro,  in  my  garret  next  the  sky, 

Where  many  a  day  and  night  I've  crouched  with  not 
a  crust  to  eat, 

A  picture  hangs  upon  the  wall  a  fortune  couldn't  buy, 

A  portrait  of  a  girl  whose  face  is  pure  and  angel- 
sweet." 

Sadly  the  woman  looked  at  him:  "  Alas!  it's  true," 
she  said; 

"  That  little  maid,  I  knew  her  once.  It's  long  ago 
—  she's  dead." 

He  went  to  her;  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  wasted 
arm: 

"  Oh,  Marie  Toro,  come  with  me,  though  poor  and 
sick  am  I. 


90       THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO 

For  old  times'  sake  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  come 

to  harm; 
Ah!  there  are  memories,  God  knows,   that  never, 

never  die.   .  .  ." 
"Too  late!"   she  sighed;  "I've  lived  my  life   of 

splendor  and  of  shame; 
I've  been  adored  by  men  of  power,  I've  touched  the 

highest  height; 
I've  squandered  gold  like  heaps  of  dirt  —  oh,  I  have 

played  the  game; 
I've  had  my  place  within  the  sun  .  .   .  and  now  I 

face  the  night. 

Look!  look!  you  see  I'm  lost  to  hope;  I  live  no  mat- 
ter how  .  .  . 
To  drink  and  drink  and  so  forget  .  .   .  that's  all  I 

care  for  now." 

And  so  she  went  her  heedless  way,  and  all  our  help 
was  vain. 

She  trailed  along  with  tattered  shawl  and  mud-cor- 
roded skirt; 

She  gnawed  a  crust  and  slept  beneath  the  bridges  of 
the  Seine, 

A  garbage  thing,  a  composite  of  alcohol  and  dirt. 

The  students  learned  her  story  and  the  cafes  knew 
her  well, 

The  Pascal  and  the  Pantheon,  the  Sufflot  and  Va- 
chette ; 

She  shuffled  round  the  tables  with  the  flowers  she 
tried  to  sell, 

A  living  mask  of  misery  that  no  one  will  forget. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MARIE  TORO       91 

And  then  last  week  I  missed  her,  and  they  found  her 
in  the  street 

One  morning  early,  huddled  down,  for  it  was  freez- 
ing cold; 

But  when  they  raised  her  ragged  shawl  her  face  was 
still  and  sweet; 

Some  bits  of  broken  bloom  were  clutched  within  her 
icy  hold. 

That's  all.  .  .  .  Ah  yes,  they  say  that  saw:  her 
blue,  wide-open  eyes 

Were  beautiful  with  joy  again,  with  radiant  sur- 
prise. .  .  . 

A  week  ago  she  begged  for  bread;  we've  bought  for 

her  a  stone, 
And  a  peaceful  place  in  Pere-La-Chaise  where  she'll 

be  well  alone. 
She  cost  a  king  his  crown,  they  say;  oh,  wouldn't  she 

be  proud 
If  she  could  see  the  wreaths  to-day,  the  coaches  and 

the  crowd ! 
So  follow,  follow,  follow  on  with  slow  and  sober 

tread, 
For  Marie  Toro,  gutter  waif  and  queen  of  queens, 

is  dead. 


92  THE  BOHEMIAN 


IV 

THE  CAFE  DE  DEUX  MAGOTS, 

June  1914. 

THE  BOHEMIAN 

Up  in  my  garret  bleak  and  bare 

I  tilted  back  on  my  broken  chair, 

And  my  three  old  pals  were  with  me  there, 

Hunger  and  Thirst  and  Cold; 
Hunger  scowled  at  his  scurvy  mate : 
Cold  cowered  down  by  the  hollow  grate, 
And  I  hated  them  with  a  deadly  hate 

As  old  as  life  is  old. 

So  up  in  my  garret  that's  near  the  sky 

I  smiled  a  smile  that  was  thin  and  dry : 

"  You've  roomed  with  me  twenty  year,"  said  I, 

"Hunger  and  Thirst  and  Cold; 
But  now,  begone  down  the  broken  stair ! 
I've  suffered  enough  of  your  spite  ...  so  there !  " 
Bang!     Bang!     I  slapped  on  the  table  bare 

A  glittering  heap  of  gold. 

''  Red  flames  will  jewel  my  wine  to-night; 
I'll  loose  my  belt  that  you've  lugged  so  tight; 
Ha!     Ha!     Dame  Fortune  is  smiling  bright; 

The  stuff  of  my  brain  I've  sold; 
Canaille  of  the  gutter,  up!     Away! 
You've  battened  on  me  for  a  bitter-long  day; 


THE  BOHEMIAN  93 

But  I'm  driving  you  forth,  and  forever  and  aye, 
Hunger  and  Thirst  and  Cold." 

So  I  kicked  them  out  with  a  scornful  roar; 
Yet,  oh,  they  turned  at  the  garret  door; 
Quietly  there  they  spoke  once  more: 

"  The  tale  is  not  all  told. 
It's  au  revoir,  but  it's  not  good-by; 
We're  yours,  old  chap,  till  the  day  you  die; 
Laugh  on,  you  fool!     Oh,  you'll  never  defy 

Hunger  and  Thirst  and  Cold." 

Hurrah !  The  crisis  in  my  financial  career  is  over.  Once 
more  I  have  weathered  the  storm,  and  never  did  money 
jingle  so  sweetly  in  my  pocket.  It  was  MacBean  who  de- 
livered me.  He  arrived  at  the  door  of  my  garret  this  morn- 
ing, with  a  broad  grin  of  pleasure  on  his  face. 

"Here,"  said  he;  "I've  sold  some  of  your  rubbish. 
They'll  take  more  too,  of  the  same  sort." 

With  that  he  handed  me  three  crisp  notes.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  thought  that  he  was  paying  the  money  out  of  his 
own  pocket,  as  he  knew  I  was  desperately  hard  up ;  but  he 
showed  me  the  letter  enclosing  the  cheque  he  had  cashed  for 
me. 

So  we  sought  the  Grand  Boulevard,  and  I  had  a  Pernod, 
which  rose  to  my  head  in  delicious  waves  of  joy.  I  talked 
ecstatic  nonsense,  and  seemed  to  walk  like  a  god  in  clouds  of 
gold.  We  dined  on  frogs'  legs  and  Vouvray,  and  then  went 
to  see  the  Revue  at  the  Marigny.  A  very  merry  evening. 

Such  is  the  life  of  Bohemia,  up  and  down,  fast  and  feast ; 
its  very  uncertainty  its  charm. 

Here  is  my  latest  ballad,  another  attempt  to  express  the 
sentiment  of  actuality: 


94  THE  AUCTION  SALE 


THE  AUCTION  SALE 

Her  little  head  just  topped  the  window-sill; 

She  even  mounted  on  a  stool,  maybe; 

She  pressed  against  the  pane,  as  children  will, 

And  watched  us  playing,  oh  so  wistfully! 

And  then  I  missed  her  for  a  month  or  more, 

And  idly  thought:     "  She's  gone  away,  no  doubt," 

Until  a  hearse  drew  up  beside  the  door  .  .   . 

I  saw  a  tiny  coffin  carried  out. 

And  after  that,  towards  dusk  I'd  often  see 
Behind  the  blind  another  face  that  looked: 
Eyes  of  a  young  wife  watching  anxiously, 
Then  rushing  back  to  where  her  dinner  cooked. 
She  often  gulped  it  down  alone,  I  fear, 
Within  her  heart  the  sadness  of  despair, 
For  near  to  midnight  I  would  vaguely  hear 
A  lurching  step,  a  stumbling  on  the  stair. 

These  little  dramas  of  the  common  day! 
A  man  weak-willed  and  fore-ordained  to  fail  .  .  . 
The  window's  empty  now,  they've  gone  away, 
And  yonder,  see,  their  furniture's  for  sale. 
To  all  the  world  their  door  is  open  wide, 
And  round  and  round  the  bargain-hunters  roam, 
And  peer  and  gloat,  like  vultures  avid-eyed, 
Above  the  corpse  of  what  was  once  a  home. 

So  reverent  I  go  from  room  to  room, 
And  see  the  patient  care,  the  tender  touch, 


THE  AUCTION  SALE  95 

The  love  that  sought  to  brighten  up  the  gloom, 
The  woman-courage  tested  overmuch. 
Amid  those  things  so  intimate  and  dear, 
Where  now  the  mob  invades  with  brutal  tread, 
I  think:     '  What  happiness  is  buried  here, 
What   dreams    are   withered   and   what   hopes   are 
dead!" 

Oh,  woman  dear,  and  were  you  sweet  and  glad 
Over  the  lining  of  your  little  nest! 
What  ponderings  and  proud  ideas  you  had! 
What  visions  of  a  shrine  of  peace  and  rest! 
For  there's  his  easy-chair  upon  the  rug, 
His  reading-lamp,  his  pipe-rack  on  the  wall, 
All  that  you  could  devise  to  make  him  snug  — 
And  yet  you  could  not  hold  him  with  it  all. 

Ah,  patient  heart,  what  homelike  joys  you  planned 
To  stay  him  by  the  dull  domestic  flame ! 
Those  silken  cushions  that  you  worked  by  hand 
When  you  had  time,  before  the  baby  came. 
Oh,  how  you  wove  around  him  cozy  spells, 
And  schemed  so  hard  to  keep  him  home  of  nights! 
Aye,  every  touch  and  turn  some  story  tells 
Of  sweet  conspiracies  and  dead  delights. 

And  here  upon  the  scratched  piano  stool, 
Tied  in  a  bundle,  are  the  songs  you  sung; 
That  cozy  that  you  worked  in  colored  wool, 
The  Spanish  lace  you  made  when  you  were  young, 
And  lots  of  modern  novels,  cheap  reprints, 


96  THE  AUCTION  SALE 

And  little  dainty  knick-knacks  everywhere; 
And  silken  bows  and  curtains  of  gay  chintz  .  .  . 
And  oh,  her  tiny  crib,  her  folding  chair! 

Sweet  woman  dear,  and  did  your  heart  not  break, 
To  leave  this  precious  home  you  made  in  vain? 
Poor  shabby  things !  so  prized  for  old  times'  sake, 
With  all  their  memories  of  love  and  pain. 
Alas !  while  shouts  the  raucous  auctioneer, 
And  rat-faced  dames  are  prying  everywhere, 
The  echo  of  old  joy  is  all  I  hear, 
All,  all  I  see  just  heartbreak  and  despair. 


Imagination  is  the  great  gift  of  the  gods.  Given  it,  one 
does  not  need  to  look  afar  for  subjects.  There  is  romance 
in  every  face. 

Those  who  have  Imagination  live  in  a  land  of  enchant- 
ment which  the  eyes  of  others  cannot  see.  Yet  if  it  brings 
marvelous  joy  it  also  brings  exquisite  pain.  Who  lives  a 
hundred  lives  must  die  a  hundred  deaths. 

I  do  not  know  any  of  the  people  who  live  around  me. 
Sometimes  I  pass  them  on  the  stairs.  However,  I  am  going 
to  give  my  imagination  rein,  and  string  some  rhymes  about 
them. 

Before  doing  so,  having  money  in  my  pocket  and  seeing 
the  prospect  of  making  more,  let  me  blithely  chant  about 


THE  JOY  OF  BEING  POOR  97 

THE  JOY  OF  BEING  POOR 
I 

Let  others  sing  of  gold  and  gear,  the  joy  of  being 

rich; 
But  oh,  the  days  when  I  was  poor,  a  vagrant  in  a 

ditch! 
When  every  dawn  was  like  a  gem,  so  radiant  and 

rare, 

And  I  had  but  a  single  coat,  and  not  a  single  care; 
When  I  would  feast  right  royally  on  bacon,  bread 

and  beer, 
And   dig  into   a   stack   of  hay   and   doze   like   any 

peer; 

When  I  would  wash  beside  a  brook  my  solitary  shirt, 
And  though  it  dried  upon  my  back  I  never  took  a 

hurt; 
When  I  went  romping  down  the  road  contemptuous 

of  care, 
And  slapped  Adventure  on  the  back  —  by  Gad !  we 

were  a  pair; 
When,  though  my  pockets  lacked  a  coin,  and  though 

my  coat  was  old, 
The  largess  of  the  stars  was  mine,  and  all  the  sunset 

gold; 
When  time  was  only  made  for  fools,  and  free  as  air 

was  I, 
And  hard  I  hit  and  hard  I  lived  beneath  the  open 

sky; 


98  THE  JOY  OF  BEING  POOR 

When  all  the  roads  were  one  to  me,  and  each  had  its 

allure  .  .  . 
Ye  Gods !  these  were  the  happy  days,  the  days  when  I 

was  poor. 


II 

Or  else,  again,  old  pal  of  mine,  do  you  recall  the 

times 
You  struggled  with  your  storyettes,  I  wrestled  with 

my  rhymes ; 
Oh,  we  were  happy,  were  we  not?  —  we  used  to  live 

so  "  high  " 

(A  little  bit  of  broken  roof  between  us  and  the  sky)  ; 
Upon  the  forge  of  art  we  toiled  with  hammer  and 

with  tongs; 
You  told  me  all  your  ripping  yarns,  I  sang  to  you 

my  songs. 
Our   hats   were    frayed,    our  jackets   patched,    our 

boots  were  down  at  heel, 
But  oh,  the  happy  men  were  we,  although  we  lacked 

a  meal. 

And  if  I  sold  a  bit  of  rhyme,  or  if  you  placed  a  tale, 
What  feasts  we  had  of  tenderloins  and  apple-tarts 

and  ale! 
And  yet  how  often  we  would  dine  as  cheerful  as  you 

please, 
Beside  our  little  friendly  fire  on  coffee,  bread  and 

cheese. 


THE  JOY  OF  BEING  POOR  99 

We  lived  upon  the  ragged  edge,  and  grub  was  never 

sure, 
But  oh,  these  were  the  happy  days,  the  days  when 

we  were  poor. 


Ill 

Alas!  old  man,  we're  wealthy  now,  it's  sad  beyond 

a  doubt; 
We  cannot  dodge  prosperity,  success  has  found  us 

out. 
Your  eye  is  very  dull  and  drear,  my  brow  is  creased 

with  care, 

We  realize  how  hard  it  is  to  be  a  millionaire. 
The  burden's  heavy  on  our  backs  —  you're  thinking 

of  your  rents, 

I'm  worrying  if  I'll  invest  in  five  or  six  per  cents. 
We've  limousines,  and  marble  halls,  and  flunkeys  by 

the  score, 
We  play  the  part  .   .  .  but  say,  old  chap,  oh,  isn't  it 

a  bore? 
We  work  like  slaves,  we  eat  too  much,  we  put  on 

evening  dress; 
We've  everything  a  man  can  want,  I  think  .   .   .  but 

happiness. 

Come,  let  us  sneak  away,  old  chum;  forget  that  we 

are  rich, 
And  earn  an  honest  appetite,  and  scratch  an  honest 

itch. 


ioo         THE  JOY  OF  BEING  POOR 

Let's  be  two  jolly  garreteers,  up  seven  flights  of 
stairs, 

And  wear  old  clothes  and  just  pretend  we  aren't  mil- 
lionaires; 

And  wonder  how  we'll  pay  the  rent,  and  scribble 
ream  on  ream, 

And  sup  on  sausages  and  tea,  and  laugh  and  loaf  and 
dream. 

And  when  we're  tired  of  that,  my  friend,  oh,  you  will 

come  with  me ; 
And  we  will  seek  the  sunlit  roads  that  lie  beside  the 

sea. 
We'll  know  the  joy  the  gipsy  knows,  the  freedom 

nothing  mars, 
The  golden  treasure-gates  of  dawn,  the  mintage  of 

the  stars. 
We'll  smoke  our  pipes  and  watch  the  pot,  and  feed 

the  crackling  fire, 
And  sing  like  two  old  jolly  boys,  and  dance  to  heart's 

desire; 
We'll  climb  the  hill  and  ford  the  brook  and  camp 

upon  the  moor  .  .  . 
Old  chap,  let's  haste,  I'm  mad  to  taste  the  Joy  of 

Being  Poor. 


MY  NEIGHBORS  101 


MY  GARRET,  MONTPARNASSE, 

June  1914. 

MY  NEIGHBORS 

To  rest  my  fagged  brain  now  and  then, 
When  wearied  of  my  proper  labors, 
I  lay  aside  my  lagging  pen 
And  get  to  thinking  on  my  neighbors; 
For,  oh,  around  my  garret  den 
There's  woe  and  poverty  a-plenty, 
And  life's  so  interesting  when 
A  lad  is  only  two-and-twenty. 

Now,  there's  that  artist  gaunt  and  wan, 

A  little  card  his  door  adorning; 

It  reads:     "  Je  ne  suis  pour  personne," 

A  very  frank  and  fitting  warning. 

I  fear  he's  in  a  sorry  plight ; 

He  starves,  I  think,  too  proud  to  borrow, 

I  hear  him  moaning  every  night: 

Maybe  they'll  find  him  dead  to-morrow. 

ROOM  4 
THE  PAINTER  CHAP 

He  gives  me  such  a  bold  and  curious  look, 
That  young  American  across  the  way, 


102  MY  NEIGHBORS 

As  if  he'd  like  to  put  me  in  a  book 

(Fancies  himself  a  poet,  so  they  say.) 

Ah  well !     He'll  make  no  "  document  "  of  me. 

I  lock  my  door.     Ha  !  ha  !     Now  none  shall  see.  .  . 

Pictures,  just  pictures  piled  from  roof  to  floor, 

Each  one  a  bit  of  me,  a  dream  fulfilled, 

A  vision  of  the  beauty  I  adore, 

My  own  poor  glimpse  of  glory,  passion-thrilled  .  . 

But  now  my  money's  gone,  I  paint  no  more. 

For  three  days  past  I  have  not  tasted  food; 
The  jeweled  colors  run  ...  I  reel,  I  faint; 
They  tell  me  that  my  pictures  are  no  good, 
Just  crude  and  childish  daubs,  a  waste  of  paint. 
I  burned  to  throw  on  canvas  all  I  saw  — 
Twilight  on  water,  tenderness  of  trees, 
Wet  sands  at  sunset  and  the  smoking  seas, 
The  peace  of  valleys  and  the  mountain's  awe : 
Emotion  swayed  me  at  the  thought  of  these. 
I  sought  to  paint  ere  I  had  learned  to  draw, 
And  that's  the  trouble.  .  .  . 

Ah  well !  here  am  I, 
Facing  my  failure  after  struggle  long; 
And  there  they  are,  my  croutes  that  none  will  buy 
(And  doubtless  they  are  right  and  I  am  wrong)  ; 
Well,  when  one's  lost  one's  faith  it's  time  to  die.  .  .  . 

This  knife  will  do  ...  and  now  to  slash  and  slash; 

Rip  them  to  ribands,  rend  them  every  one, 

My  dreams  and  visions  —  tear  and  stab  and  gash, 


MY  NEIGHBORS  103 

So  that  their  crudeness  may  be  known  to  none ; 
Poor,  miserable  daubs!     Ah!  there,  it's  done.  .  .  . 

And  now  to  close  my  little  window  tight. 
Lo !  in  the  dusking  sky,  serenely  set, 
The  evening  star  is  like  a  beacon  bright. 
And  see !  to  keep  her  tender  tryst  with  night 
How  Paris  veils  herself  in  violet.  .  .  . 

Oh,  why  does  God  create  such  men  as  I?  — 
All  pride  and  passion  and  divine  desire, 
Raw,  quivering  nerve-stuff  and  devouring  fire, 
Foredoomed  to  failure  though  they  try  and  try; 
Abortive,  blindly  to  destruction  hurled; 
Unfound,  unfit  to  grapple  with  the  world.   .  .  . 

And  now  to  light  my  wheezy  jet  of  gas; 
Chink  up  the  window-crannies  and  the  door, 
So  that  no  single  breath  of  air  may  pass; 
So  that  I'm  sealed  air-tight  from  roof  to  floor. 
There,  there,  that's  done;  and  now  there's  nothing 
more.  .  .  . 

Look  at  the  city's  myriad  lamps  a-shine; 

See,  the  calm  moon  is  launching  into  space  .  .  . 

There  will  be  darkness  in  these  eyes  of  mine 

Ere  it  can  climb  to  shine  upon  my  face. 

Oh,  it  will  find  such  peace  upon  my  face !   .  .  . 

City  of  Beauty,  I  have  loved  you  well, 

A  laugh  or  two  I've  had,  but  many  a  sigh; 


io4  MY  NEIGHBORS 

I've  run  with  you  the  scale  from  Heav'n  to  Hell. 
Paris,  I  love  you  still  .   .  .  good-by,  good-by. 
Thus  it  all  ends  —  unhappily,  alas  ! 
It's    time    to   sleep,    and   now  .  .  .  blow    out    the 
gas.  .  .  . 

Now  there's  that  little  midinette 
Who  goes  to  work  each  morning  daily; 
I  choose  to  call  her  Blithe  Babette, 
Because  she's  always  humming  gaily; 
And  though  the  Goddess  "  Comme-il-faut  " 
May  look  on  her  with  prim  expression, 
It's  Pagan  Paris  where,  you  know, 
The  queen  of  virtues  is  Discretion. 

ROOM  6 

THE  LITTLE  WORKGIRL 

Three  gentlemen  live  close  beside  me  — 
A  painter  of  pictures  bizarre, 
A  poet  whose  virtues  might  guide  me, 
A  singer  who  plays  the  guitar; 
And  there  on  my  lintel  is  Cupid; 
I  leave  my  door  open,  and  yet 
These  gentlemen,  aren't  they  stupid! 
They  never  make  love  to  Babette. 

I  go  to  the  shop  every  morning; 
I  work  with  my  needle  and  thread; 
Silk,  satin  and  velvet  adorning, 


MY  NEIGHBORS  105 

Then  luncheon  on  coffee  and  bread. 
Then  sewing  and  sewing  till  seven; 
Or  else,  if  the  order  I  get, 
I  toil  and  I  toil  till  eleven  — 
And  such  is  the  day  of  Babette. 

It  doesn't  seem  cheerful,  I  fancy; 

The  wage  is  unthinkably  small; 

And  yet  there  is  one  thing  I  can  say: 

I  keep  a  bright  face  through  it  all. 

I  chaff  though  my  head  may  be  aching; 

I  sing  a  gay  song  to  forget; 

I  laugh  though  my  heart  may  be  breaking  — 

It's  all  in  the  life  of  Babette. 

That  gown,  O  my  lady  of  leisure, 
You  begged  to  be  "  finished  in  haste." 
It  gives  you  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
Your  lovers  remark  on  its  taste. 
Yet  .   .   .   oh,  the  poor  little  white  faces, 
The  tense  midnight  toil  and  the  fret  .  .  . 
I  fear  that  the  foam  of  its  laces 
Is  salt  with  the  tears  of  Babette. 

It  takes  a  brave  heart  to  be  cheery 

With  no  gleam  of  hope  in  the  sky; 

The  future's  so  utterly  dreary, 

I'm  laughing  —  in  case  I  should  cry. 

And  if,  where  the  gay  lights  are  glowing, 

I  dine  with  a  man  I  have  met, 

And  snatch  a  bright  moment  —  who's  going 

To  blame  a  poor  little  Babette? 


io6  MY  NEIGHBORS 


And  you,  Friend  beyond  all  the  telling, 
Although  you're  an  ocean  away, 
Your  pictures,  they  tell  me,  are  selling, 
You're  married  and  settled,  they  say. 
Such  happiness  one  wouldn't  barter; 
Yet,  oh,  do  you  never  regret 
The  Springtide,  the  roses,  Montmartre, 
Youth,  poverty,  love  and  —  Babette? 

That  blond-haired  chap  across  the  way 
With  sunny  smile  and  voice  so  mellow, 
He  sings  In  some  cheap  cabaret, 
Yet  what  a  gay  and  charming  fellow! 
His  breath  with  garlic  may  be  strong, 
What  matters  It?  his  laugh  Is  jolly; 
His  day  he  gives  to  sleep  and  song: 
His  night's  made  up  of  song  and  folly. 

ROOM  5 
THE  CONCERT  SINGER 

I'm  one  of  these  haphazard  chaps 
Who  sit  in  cafes  drinking; 
A  most  improper  taste,  perhaps, 
Yet  pleasant,  to  my  thinking. 
For,  oh,  I  hate  discord  and  strife; 
I'm  sadly,  weakly  human; 
And  I  do  think  the  best  of  life 
Is  wine  and  song  and  woman. 


MY  NEIGHBORS  107 

Now,  there's  that  youngster  on  my  right 
Who  thinks  himself  a  poet, 
And  so  he  toils  from  morn  to  night 
And  vainly  hopes  to  show  it; 
And  there's  that  dauber  on  my  left, 
Within  his  chamber  shrinking  — 
He  looks  like  one  of  hope  bereft; 
He  lives  on  air,  I'm  thinking. 

But  me,  I  love  the  things  that  are, 

My  heart  is  always  merry; 

I  laugh  and  tune  my  old  guitar: 

Sing  ho!  and  hey-down-derry. 

Oh,  let  them  toil  their  lives  away 

To  gild  a  tawdry  era, 

But  I'll  be  gay  while  yet  I  may: 

Sing  tira-lira-lira. 

I'm  sure  you  know  that  picture  well, 

A  monk,  all  else  unheeding, 

Within  a  bare  and  gloomy  cell 

A  musty  volume  reading; 

While  through  the  window  you  can  see 

In  sunny  glade  entrancing, 

With  cap  and  bells  beneath  a  tree 

A  jester  dancing,  dancing. 

Which  is  the  fool  and  which  the  sage  ? 
I  cannot  quite  discover; 
But  you  may  look  in  learning's  page 
And  I'll  be  laughter's  lover. 


io8  MY  NEIGHBORS 

For  this  our  life  is  none  too  long, 
And  hearts  were  made  for  gladness; 
Let  virtue  lie  in  joy  and  song, 
The  only  sin  be  sadness. 

So  let  me  troll  a  jolly  air, 

Come  what  come  will  to-morrow; 

I'll  be  no  cabotin  of  care, 

No  souteneur  of  sorrow. 

Let  those  who  will  indulge  in  strife, 

To  my  most  merry  thinking, 

The  true  philosophy  of  life 

Is  laughing,  loving,  drinking. 

And  there's  that  weird  and  ghastly  hag 
Who  -walks  head  bent,  with  lips  a-mutter; 
With  twitching  hands  and  feet  that  drag, 
And  tattered  skirts  that  sweep  the  gutter. 
An  outworn  harlot,  lost  to  hope, 
With  staring  eyes  and  hair  that's  hoary 
I  hear  her  gibber,  dazed  with  dope: 
I  often  wonder  what's  her  story. 

ROOM  7 
THE  COCO-FIEND 

I  look  at  no  one,  me; 
I  pass  them  on  the  stair; 
Shadows !     I  don't  see ; 
Shadows !  everywhere. 


MY  NEIGHBORS  109 

Haunting,  taunting,  staring,  glaring, 

Shadows!     I  don't  care. 

Once  my  room  I  gain 

Then  my  life  begins. 

Shut  the  door  on  pain; 

How  the  Devil  grins ! 

Grin  with  might  and  main; 

Grin  and  grin  in  vain; 

Here's  where  Heav'n  begins: 

Cocaine !     Cocaine ! 

A  whiff !     Ah,  that's  the  thing. 

How  it  makes  me  gay ! 

Now  I  want  to  sing, 

Leap,  laugh,  play. 

Ha  !     I've  had  my  fling! 

Mistress  of  a  king 

In  my  day. 

Just  another  snuff  .   .  . 

Oh,  the  blessed  stuff! 

How  the  wretched  room 

Rushes  from  my  sight; 

Misery  and  gloom 

Melt  into  delight; 

Fear  and  death  and  doom 

Vanish  in  the  night. 

No  more  cold  and  pain, 

I  am  young  again, 

Beautiful  again, 

Cocaine!     Cocaine! 

Oh,  I  was  made  to  be  good,  to  be  good, 

For  a  true  man's  love  and  a  life  that's  sweet; 


no  MY  NEIGHBORS 

Fireside  blessings  and  motherhood. 

Little  ones  playing  around  my  feet. 

How  it  all  unfolds  like  a  magic  screen, 

Tender  and  glowing  and  clear  and  glad, 

The  wonderful  mother  I  might  have  been, 

The  beautiful  children  I  might  have  had; 

Romping  and  laughing  and  shrill  with  glee, 

Oh,  I  see  them  now  and  I  see  them  plain. 

Darlings !     Come  nestle  up  close  to  me, 

You  comfort  me  so,  and  you're  just  .  .  .  Cocaine. 

It's  Life  that's  all  to  blame : 
We  can't  do  what  we  will; 
She  robes  us  with  her  shame, 
She  crowns  us  with  her  ill. 
I  do  not  care,  because 
I  see  with  bitter  calm, 
Life  made  me  what  I  was, 
Life  makes  me  what  I  am. 
Could  I  throw  back  the  years, 
It  all  would  be  the  same; 
Hunger  and  cold  and  tears, 
Misery,  fear  and  shame, 
And  then  the  old  refrain, 
Cocaine!      Cocaine! 

A  love-child  I,  so  here  my  mother  came, 
Where  she  might  live  in  peace  with  none  to  blame. 
And  how  she  toiled !     Harder  than  any  slave, 
What  courage!  patient,  hopeful,  tender,  brave. 
We  had  a  little,  room  at  Lavilette, 


MY  NEIGHBORS  in 

So  small,  so  neat,  so  clean,  I  see  it  yet. 

Poor  mother !  sewing,  sewing  late  at  night, 

Her  wasted  face  beside  the  candlelight, 

This  Paris  crushed  her.     How  she  used  to  sigh ! 

And  as  I  watched  her  from  my  bed  I  knew 

She  saw  red  roofs  against  a  primrose  sky 

And  glistening  fields  and  apples  dimmed  with  dew. 

Hard  times  we  had.     We  counted  every  sou, 

We  sewed  sacks  for  a  living.     I  was  quick  .   .  . 

Four  busy  hands  to  work  instead  of  two. 

Oh,  we  were  happy  there,  till  she  fell  sick.  .  .  . 

My  mother  lay,  her  face  turned  to  the  wall, 
And  I,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  fair  and  tall, 
Sat  by  her  side,  all  stricken  with  despair, 
Knelt  by  her  bed  and  faltered  out  a  prayer. 
A  doctor's  order  on  the  table  lay, 
Medicine  for  which,  alas !  I  could  not  pay; 
Medicine  to  save  her  life,  to  soothe  her  pain. 
I  sought  for  something  I  could  sell,  in  vain  .   .   . 
All,  all  was  gone!     The  room  was  cold  and  bare; 
Gone  blankets  and  the  cloak  I  used  to  wear; 
Bare  floor  and  wall  and  cupboard,  every  shelf  — 
Nothing  that  I  could  sell  .  .  .  except  myself. 

I  sought  the  street,  I  could  not  bear 

To  hear  my  mother  moaning  there. 

I  clutched  the  paper  in  my  hand. 

'Twas  hard.     You  cannot  understand  .  .  . 

I  walked  as  martyr  to  the  flame, 

Almost  exalted  in  my  shame. 


H2  MY  NEIGHBORS 

They  turned,  who  heard  my  voiceless  cry, 

"  For  Sale,  a  virgin,  who  will  buy?" 

And  so  myself  I  fiercely  sold, 

And  clutched  the  price,  a  piece  of  gold. 

Into  a  pharmacy  I  pressed; 

I  took  the  paper  from  my  breast. 

I  gave  my  money  .   .   .  how  it  gleamed! 

How  precious  to  my  eyes  it  seemed! 

And  then  I  saw  the  chemist  frown, 

Quick  on  the  counter  throw  it  down, 

Shake  with  an  angry  look  his  head : 

"  Your  louts  d'or  is  bad,"  he  said. 

Dazed,  crushed,  I  went  into  the  night, 
I  clutched  my  gleaming  coin  so  tight. 
No,  no,  I  could  not  well  believe 
That  any  one  could  so  deceive. 
I  tried  again  and  yet  again  — 
Contempt,  suspicion  and  disdain; 
Always  the  same  reply  I  had: 
"  Get  out  of  this.     Your  money's  bad." 

Heart  broken  to  the  room  I  crept, 
To  mother's  side.     All  still  .   .   .  she  slept 
I  bent,  I  sought  to  raise  her  head  .  .  . 
"  Oh,  God,  have  pity!  "  she  was  dead. 

That's  how  it  all  began. 
Said  I :     Revenge  is  sweet. 
So  in  my  guilty  span 
I've  ruined  many  a  man. 


MY  NEIGHBORS  113 

They've  groveled  at  my  feet, 
I've  pity  had  for  none; 
I've  bled  them  every  one. 
Oh,  I've  had  interest  for 
That  worthless  louis  d'or. 

But  now  it's  over;  see, 
I  care  for  no  one,  me; 
Only  at  night  sometimes 
In  dreams  I  hear  the  chimes 
Of  wedding-bells  and  see 
A  woman  without  stain 
With  children  at  her  knee. 
Ah,  how  you  comfort  me, 
Cocaine !  . 


BOOK  THREE 
LATE  SUMMER 


THE  OMNIUM  BAR,  NEAR  THE  BOURSE, 

Late  July  1914. 

MacBean,  before  he  settled  down  to  the  manufacture 
of  mercantile  fiction,  had  ideas  of  a  nobler  sort,  which 
bore  their  fruit  in  a  slender  book  of  poems.  In  subject  they 
are  either  ero^'c,  mythologic,  or  descriptive  of  nature.  So 
polished  are  they  that  the  mind  seems  to  slide  over  them: 
so  faultless  in  form  that  the  critics  hailed  them  with  highest 
praise,  and  as  many  as  a  hundred  copies  were  sold. 

Saxon  Dane,  too,  has  published  a  book  of  poems,  but 
he,  on  the  other  hand,  defies  tradition  to  an  eccentric  degree. 
Originality  is  his  sin.  He  strains  after  it  in  every  line. 
I  must  confess  I  think  much  of  the  free  verse  he  writes  is 
really  prose,  and  a  good  deal  of  it  blank  verse  chopped  up 
into  odd  lengths.  He  talks  of  assonance  and  color,  of 
stress  and  pause  and  accent,  and  bewilders  me  with  his 
theories. 

He  and  MacBean  represent  two  extremes,  and  at  night, 
as  we  sit  in  the  Cafe  du  Dome,  they  have  the  hottest  of 
arguments.  As  for  me,  I  listen  with  awe,  content  that  my 
medium  is  verse,  and  that  the  fashions  of  Hood,  Thackeray 
and  Bret  Harte  are  the  fashions  of  to-day. 

Of  late  I  have  been  doing  light  stuff,  "  fillers  "  for  Mac- 
Bean.  Here  are  three  of  my  specimens: 

THE  PHILANDERER 

Oh,  have  you  forgotten  those  afternoons 
With  riot  of  roses  and  amber  skies, 

117 


n8  THE  PHILANDERER 

When  we  thrilled  to  the  joy  of  a  million  Junes, 

And  I  sought  for  your  soul  in  the  deeps  of  your  eyes? 

I  would  love  you,  I  promised,  forever  and  aye, 

And  I  meant  it  too;  yet,  oh,  isn't  it  odd? 

When  we  met  in  the  Underground  to-day 

I  addressed  you  as  Mary  instead  of  as  Maude. 

Oh,  don't  you  remember  that  moonlit  sea, 
With  us  on  a  silver  trail  afloat, 
When  I  gracefully  sank  on  my  bended  knee 
At  the  risk  of  upsetting  our  little  boat? 
Oh,  I  vowed  that  my  life  was  blighted  then, 
As  friendship  you  proffered  with  mournful  mien; 
But  now  as  I  think  of  your  children  ten, 
I'm  glad  you  refused  me,  Evangeline. 

Oh,  is  that  moment  eternal  still 

When  I  breathed  my  love  in  your  shell-like  ear, 

And  you  plucked  at  your  fan  as  a  maiden  will, 

And  you  blushed  so  charmingly,  Guenivere? 

Like  a  worshiper  at  your  feet  I  sat; 

For  a  year  and  a  day  you  made  me  mad; 

But  now,  alas!  you  are  forty,  fat, 

And  I  think:     What  a  lucky  escape  I  had! 

Oh,  maidens  I've  set  in  a  sacred  shrine, 
Oh,  Rosamond,  Molly  and  Mignonette, 
I've  deemed  you  in  turn  the  most  divine, 
In  turn  you've  broken  my  heart  .   .   .   and  yet 
It's  easily  mended.     What's  past  is  past. 
To-day  on  Lucy  I'm  going  to  call; 


THE  PETIT  VIEUX  119 

For  I'm  sure  that  I  know  true  love  at  last, 
And  She  is  the  fairest  girl  of  all. 


THE  PETIT  FIEUX 

"  Sow  your  wild  oats  in  your  youth,"  so  we're  always 

told; 
But  I   say  with  deeper  sooth:     "Sow  them  when 

you're  old." 

I'll  be  wise  till  I'm  about  seventy  or  so: 
Then,  by  Gad!  I'll  blossom  out  as  an  ancient  beau. 

I'll  assume  a  dashing  air,  laugh  with  loud  Ha! 
ha!  ... 

How  my  grandchildren  will  stare  at  their  grand- 
papa! 

Their  perfection  aurioled  I  will  scandalize: 

Won't  I  be  a  hoary  old  sinner  in  their  eyes ! 

Watch  me,  how  I'll  learn  to  chaff  barmaids  in  a  bar; 
Scotches  daily,  gayly  quaff,  puff  a  fierce  cigar. 
I  will  haunt  the  Tango  teas,  at  the  stage-door  stand; 
Wait  for  Dolly  Dimpleknees,  bouquet  in  my  hand. 

Then  at  seventy  I'll  take  flutters  at  roulette; 
While  at  eighty  hope  I'll  make  good  at  poker  yet; 
And  in  fashionable  togs  to  the  races  go, 
Gayest  of  the  gay  old  dogs,  ninety  years  or  so. 

"  Sow  your  wild  oats  while  you're  young,"  that's 
what  you  are  told; 


120  MY  MASTERPIECE 

Don't  believe  the  foolish  tongue  —  sow  'em  when 

you're  old. 
Till  you're  threescore  years  and  ten,  take  my 

humble  tip, 
Sow  your  nice  tame  oats  and  then  .  .  .  Hi,  boys! 

Let  'er  rip. 


MY  MASTERPIECE 

It's  slim  and  trim  and  bound  in  blue; 
Its  leaves  are  crisp  and  edged  with  gold; 
Its  words  are  simple,  stalwart  too; 
Its  thoughts  are  tender,  wise  and  bold. 
Its  pages  scintillate  with  wit; 
Its  pathos  clutches  at  my  throat: 
Oh,  how  I  love  each  line  of  it! 
That  Little  Book  I  Never  Wrote. 

In  dreams  I  see  it  praised  and  prized 
By  all,  from  plowman  unto  peer; 
It's  pencil-marked  and  memorized, 
It's  loaned  (and  not  returned,  I  fear)  ; 
It's  worn  and  torn  and  travel-tossed, 
And  even  dusky  natives  quote 
That  classic  that  the  world  has  lost, 
The  Little  Book  I  Never  Wrote. 

Poor  ghost !     For  homes  you've  failed  to  cheer, 
For  grieving  hearts  uncomforted, 
Don't  haunt  me  now.          .  Alas!  I  fear 


MY  BOOK  121 

The  fire  of  Inspiration's  dead. 
A  humdrum  way  I  go  to-night, 
From  all  I  hoped  and  dreamed  remote: 
Too  late  ...   a  better  man  must  write 
That  Little  Book  I  Never  Wrote 

Talking  about  writing  books,  there  is  a  queer  character 
who  shuffles  up  and  down  the  little  streets  that  neighbor  the 
Place  Maubert,  and  who,  they  say,  has  been  engaged  on  one 
for  years.  Sometimes  I  see  him  cowering  in  some  cheap 
bouge,  and  his  wild  eyes  gleam  at  me  through  the  tangle 
of  his  hair.  But  I  do  not  think  he  ever  sees  me.  He 
mumbles  to  himself,  and  moves  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  His 
pockets  are  full  of  filthy  paper  on  which  he  writes  from 
time  to  time.  The  students  laugh  at  him  and  make  him 
tipsy;  the  street  boys  pelt  him  with  ordure;  the  better  cafes 
turn  him  from  their  doors.  But  who  knows?  At  least, 
this  is  how  I  see  him: 


MY  BOOK 

Before  I  drink  myself  to  death, 
God,  let  me  finish  up  my  Book! 
At  night,  I  fear,  I  fight  for  breath, 
And  wake  up  whiter  than  a  spook; 
And  crawl  off  to  a  bistro  near, 
And  drink  until  my  brain  is  clear. 

Rare  Absinthe !     Oh,  it  gives  me  strength 
To  write  and  write;  and  so  I  spend 
Day  after  day,  until  at  length 
With  joy  and  pain  I'll  write  The  End: 


122  MY  BOOK 

Then  let  this  carcase  rot;  I  give 

The  world  my  Book  —  my  Book  will  live. 

For  every  line  is  tense  with  truth, 
There's  hope  and  joy  on  every  page; 
A  cheer,  a  clarion  call  to  Youth, 
A  hymn,  a  comforter  to  Age : 
All's  there  that  I  was  meant  to  be, 
My  part  divine,  the  God  in  me. 

It's  of  my  life  the  golden  sum; 

Ah !  who  that  reads  this  Book  of  mine, 

In  stormy  centuries  to  come, 

Will  dream  I  rooted  with  the  swine? 

Behold!  I  give  mankind  my  best: 

What  does  it  matter,  all  the  rest? 

It's  this  that  makes  sublime  my  day; 
It's  this  that  makes  me  struggle  on. 
Oh,  let  them  mock  my  mortal  clay, 
My  spirit's  deathless  as  the  dawn; 
Oh,  let  them  shudder  as  they  look  .  .  . 
I'll  be  immortal  in  my  Book. 

And  so  beside  the  sullen  Seine 
I  fight  with  dogs  for  filthy  food, 
Yet  know  that  from  my  sin  and  pain 
Will  soar  serene  a  Something  Good; 
Exultantly  from  shame  and  wrong 
A  Right,  a  Glory  and  a  Song. 


MY  HOUR  123 

How  charming  it  is,  this  Paris  of  the  summer  skies!  Each 
morning  I  leap  up  with  joy  in  my  heart,  all  eager  to  begin 
the  day  of  work.  As  I  eat  my  breakfast  and  smoke  my 
pipe,  I  ponder  over  my  task.  Then  in  the  golden  sunshine 
that  floods  my  little  attic  I  pace  up  and  down,  absorbed  and 
forgetful  of  the  world.  As  I  compose  I  speak  the  words 
aloud.  There  are  difficulties  to  overcome;  thoughts  that 
will  not  fit  their  mold;  rebellious  rhymes.  Ah!  those  mo- 
ments of  despair  and  defeat. 

Then  suddenly  the  mind  grows  lucid,  imagination  glows, 
the  snarl  unravels.  In  the  end  is  always  triumph  and 
success.  O  delectable  metier  \  Who  would  not  be  a  rhyme- 
smith  in  Paris,  in  Bohemia,  in  the  heart  of  youth! 

I  have  now  finished  my  twentieth  ballad.  Five  more  and 
they  will  be  done.  In  quiet  corners  of  cafes,  on  benches 
of  the  Luxembourg,  on  the  sunny  Quays  I  read  them  over 
one  by  one.  Here  is  my  latest: 


MY  HOUR 

Day  after  day  behold  me  plying 

My  pen  within  an  office  drear; 

The  dullest  dog,  till  homeward  hieing, 

Then  lo!  I  reign  a  king  of  cheer. 

A  throne  have  I  of  padded  leather, 

A  little  court  of  kiddies  three, 

A  wife  who  smiles  whate'er  the  weather, 

A  feast  of  muffins,  jam  and  tea. 

The  table  cleared,  a  romping  battle, 
A  fairy  tale,  a  "  Children,  bed," 
A  kiss,  a  hug,  a  hush  of  prattle 


i24  MY  HOUR 

(God  save  each  little  drowsy  head!) 
A  cozy  chat  with  wife  a-sewing, 
A  silver  lining  clouds  that  low'r, 
Then  she  too  goes,  and  with  her  going, 
I  come  again  into  my  Hour. 

I  poke  the  fire,  I  snugly  settle, 
My  pipe  I  prime  with  proper  care; 
The  water's  purring  in  the  kettle, 
Rum,  lemon,  sugar,  all  are  there. 
And  now  the  honest  grog  is  steaming, 
And  now  the  trusty  briar's  aglow: 
Alas !  in  smoking,  drinking,  dreaming, 
How  sadly  swift  the  moments  go ! 

Oh,  golden  hour!  'twixt  love  and  duty, 
All  others  I  to  others  give ; 
But  you  are  mine  to  yield  to  Beauty, 
To  glean  Romance,  to  greatly  live. 
For  in  my  easy-chair  reclining  .  .  . 
I  feel  the  sting  of  ocean  spray; 
And  yonder  wondrously  are  shining 
The  Magic  Isles  of  Far  Away. 

'Beyond  the  comber's  cr'ashing  thunder 
Strange  beaches  flash  into  my  ken; 
On  jetties  heaped  head-high  with  plunder 
I  dance  and  dice  with  sailor-men. 
Strange  stars  swarm  down  to  burn  above  me, 
Strange  shadows  haunt,  strange  voices  greet; 
Strange  women  lure  and  laugh  and  love  me, 
And  fling  their  bastards  at  my  feet. 


MY  HOUR  125 

Oh,  I  would  wish  the  wide  world  over, 
In  ports  of  passion  and  unrest, 
To  drink  and  drain,  a  tarry  rover 
With  dragons  tattooed  on  my  chest, 
With  haunted  eyes  that  hold  red  glories 
Of  foaming  seas  and  crashing  shores, 
With  lips  that  tell  the  strangest  stories 
Of  sunken  ships  and  gold  moidores; 

Till  sick  of  storm  and  strife  and  slaughter, 
Some  ghostly  night  when  hides  the  moon, 
I  slip  into  the  milk-warm  water 
And  softly  swim  the  stale  lagoon. 
Then  through  some  jungle  python-haunted, 
Or  plumed  morass,  or  woodland  wild, 
I  win  my  way  with  heart  undaunted, 
And  all  the  wonder  of  a  child. 

The  pathless  plains  shall  swoon  around  me, 
The  forests  frown,  the  floods  appall; 
The  mountains  tiptoe  to  confound  me, 
The  rivers  roar  to  speed  my  fall. 
Wild  dooms  shall  daunt,  and  dawns  be  gory, 
And  Death  shall  sit  beside  my  knee; 
Till  after  terror,  torment,  glory, 
I  win  again  the  sea,  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Oh,  anguish  sweet !     Oh,  triumph  splendid ! 
Oh,  dreams  adieu !  my  pipe  is  dead. 
My  glass  is  dry,  my  Hour  is  ended, 


126  MY  HOUR 

It's  time  indeed  I  stole  to  bed. 
How  peacefully  the  house  is  sleeping! 
Ah!  why  should  I  strange  fortunes  plan? 
To  guard  the  dear  ones  in  my  keeping  — 
That's  task  enough  for  any  man. 

So  through  dim  seas  I'll  ne'er  go  spoiling; 

The  red  Tortugas  never  roam; 

Please  God!  I'll  keep  the  pot  a-boiling, 

And  make  at  least  a  happy  home. 

My  children's  path  shall  gleam  with  roses, 

Their  grace  abound,  their  joy  increase. 

And  so  my  Hour  divinely  closes 

With  tender  thoughts  of  praise  and  peace. 

II 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG, 

Late  July  1914. 

When  on  some  scintillating  summer  morning  I  leap 
lightly  up  to  the  seclusion  of  my  garret,  I  often  think  of 
those  lines:  "  In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty -one." 

True,  I  have  no  loving,  kind  Lisette  to  pin  her  petticoat 
across  the  pane,  yet  I  do  live  in  hope.  Am  I  not  in  Bohemia 
the  Magical,  Bohemia  of  Murger,  of  de  Musset,  of  Ver- 
laine?  Shades  of  Mimi  Pinson,  of  Trilby,  of  all  that  im- 
mortal line  of  laughterful  grisettes,  do  not  tell  me  that  the 
days  of  love  and  fun  are  forever  at  an  end! 

Yes,  youth  is  golden,  but  what  of  age?  Shall  it  too 
not  testify  to  the  rhapsody  of  existence?  Let  the  years  be- 
tween be  those  of  struggle,  of  sufferance  —  of  disillusion  if 
you  will;  but  let  youth  and  age  affirm  the  ecstasy  of  being. 


A  SONG  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  127 

Let  us  look  forward  all  to  a  serene  sunset,  and  in  the  still 
skies  "  a  late  lark  singing." 

This  thought  comes  to  me  as,  sitting  on  a  bench  near 
the  band-stand,  I  see  an  old  savant  who  talks  to  all  the 
children.  His  clean-shaven  face  is  alive  with  kindliness; 
under  his  tall  silk  hat  his  white  hair  falls  to  his  shoulders. 
He  wears  a  long  black  cape  over  a  black  frock-coat,  very 
neat  linen,  and  a  flowing  tie  of  black  silk.  I  call  him 
"  Silvester  Bonnard."  As  I  look  at  him  I  truly  think  the 
best  of  life  are  the  years  between  sixty  and  seventy. 


A  SONG  OF  SIXTY-FIVE 

Brave  Thackeray  has  trolled  of  days  when  he  was 
twenty-one, 

And  bounded  up  five  flights  of  stairs,  a  gallant  gar- 
reteer; 

And  yet  again  in  mellow  vein  when  youth  was  gaily 
run, 

Has  dipped  his  nose  in  Gascon  wine,  and  told  of 
Forty  Year. 

But  if  I  worthy  were  to  sing  a  richer,  rarer  time, 

I'd  tune  my  pipes  before  the  fire  and  merrily  I'd 
strive 

To  praise  that  age  when  prose  again  has  given  way 
to  rhyme, 

The  Indian  Summer  days  of  life  when  I'll  be  Sixty- 
five; 

For  then  my  work  will  all  be  done,  my  voyaging  be 
past, 


128  A  SONG  OF  SIXTY-FIVE 

And  I'll  have  earned  the  right  to  rest  where  folding 

hills  are  green; 
So  in  some  glassy  anchorage   I'll  make  my  cable 

fast, — 
Oh,  let  the  seas  show  all  their  teeth,  I'll  sit  and  smile 

serene. 

The  storm  may  bellow  round  the  roof,  I'll  bide  be- 
side the  fire, 
And  many  a  scene  of  sail  and  trail  within  the  flame 

I'll  see; 
For  I'll  have  worn  away  the  spur  of  passion  and 

desire.  .  .  . 
Oh  yes,  when  I  am  Sixty-five,  what  peace  will  come 

to  me. 

» 

I'll  take  my  breakfast  in  my  bed,  I'll  rise  at  half- 
past  ten, 
When  all  the  world  is  nicely  groomed  and  full  of 

golden  song; 
I'll  smoke  a  bit  and  joke  a  bit,  and  read  the  news, 

and  then 
I'll   potter   round   my   peach-trees   till   I   hear   the 

luncheon  gong. 
And   after   that   I   think   I'll   doze   an   hour,   well, 

maybe  two, 
And  then  I'll  show  some  kindred  soul  how  well  my 

roses  thrive; 
I'll  do  the  things  I  never  yet  have  found  the  time 

to  do.  .  .  . 
Oh,  won't  I  be  the  busy  man  when  I  am  Sixty-five. 


A  SONG  OF  SIXTY-FIVE  129 

I'll  revel  in  my  library;  I'll  read  De  Morgan's  books; 
I'll  grow  so  garrulous  I  fear  you'll  write  me  down 

a  bore; 
I'll  watch  the  ways  of  ants  and  bees  in  quiet  sunny 

nooks, 

I'll  understand  Creation  as  I  never  did  before. 
When  gossips  round  the  tea-cups  talk  I'll  listen  to 

it  all; 
On  smiling  days  some  kindly  friend  will  take  me  for 

a  drive  : 

I'll  own  a  shaggy  collie  dog  that  dashes  to  my  call: 
I'll  celebrate  my  second  youth  when  I  am  Sixty-five. 

Ah,  though  I've  twenty  years  to  go,  I  see  myself 

quite  plain, 
A  wrinkling,  twinkling,  rosy-cheeked,  benevolent  old' 

chap; 

I  think  I'll  wear  a  tartan  shawl  and  lean  upon  a  cane. 
I  hope  that  I'll  have  silver  hair  beneath  a  velvet  cap. 
I  see  my  little  grandchildren  a-romping  round  my 

knee; 
So  gay  the  scene,  I  almost  wish  'twould  hasten  to 

arrive. 
Let  others  sing  of  Youth  and  Spring,  still  will  it 

seem  to  me 
The  golden  time's  the  olden  time,  some  time  round 

Sixty-five. 

From  old  men  to  children  is  but  a  step,  and  there  too, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Fontaine  de  Medicis,  I  spend  much 
of  my  time  watching  the  little  ones.  Childhood,  so  inno- 


i3o  TEDDY  BEAR 

cent,  so  helpless,  so  trusting,   is  somehow  pathetic  to  me. 

There  was  one  jolly  little  chap  who  used  to  play  with  a 
large  white  Teddy  Bear.  He  was  always  with  his  mother, 
a  sweet-faced  woman,  who  followed  his  every  movement 
with  delight.  I  used  to  watch  them  both,  and  often  spoke 
a  few  words. 

Then  one  day  I  missed  them,  and  it  struck  me  I  had  not 
seen  them  for  a  week,  even  a  month,  maybe.  After  that 
I  looked  for  them  a  time  or  two  and  soon  forgot. 

Then  this  morning  I  saw  the  mother  in  the  rue  D'Assas. 
She  was  alone  and  in  deep  black.  I  wanted  to  ask  after 
the  boy,  but  there  was  a  look  in  her  face  that  stopped  me. 

I  do  not  think  she  will  ever  enter  the  garden  of  the 
Luxembourg  again. 

TEDDY  BEAR 

O  Teddy  Bear!  with  your  head  awry 

And  your  comical  twisted  smile, 

You  rub  your  eyes  —  do  you  wonder  why 

You've  slept  such  a  long,  long  while? 

As  you  lay  so  still  in  the  cupboard  dim, 

And  you  heard  on  the  roof  the  rain, 

Were  you  thinking  .   .   .  what  has  become  of  him? 

And  when  will  he  play  again? 

Do  you  sometimes  long  for  a  chubby  hand, 

And  a  voice  so  sweetly  shrill? 

O  Teddy  Bear!  don't  you  understand 

Why  the  house  is  awf'ly  still? 

You  sit  with  your  muzzle  propped  on  your  paws, 

And  your  whimsical  face  askew. 


TEDDY  BEAR  131 

Don't  wait,  don't  wait  for  your  friend  .  .  .  because 
He's  sleeping  and  dreaming  too. 

Aye,  sleeping  long.   .  .   .  You  remember  how 
He  stabbed  our  hearts  with  his  cries? 
And  oh,  the  dew  of  pain  on  his  brow, 
And  the  deeps  of  pain  in  his  eyes ! 
And,  Teddy  Bear !  you  remember,  too, 
As  he  sighed  and  sank  to  his  rest, 
How  all  of  a  sudden  he  smiled  to  you, 
And  he  clutched  you  close  to  his  breast. 

I'll  put  you  away,  little  Teddy  Bear, 

In  the  cupboard  far  from  my  sight; 

Maybe  he'll  come  and  he'll  kiss  you  there, 

A  wee  white  ghost  in  the  night. 

But  me,  I'll  live  with  my  love  and  pain 

A  weariful  lifetime  through; 

And  my  Hope:  will  I  see  him  again,  again? 

Ah,  God  !     If  I  only  knew  ! 

After  old  men  and  children  I  am  greatly  interested  in 
dogs.  I  will  go  out  of  my  way  to  caress  one  who  shows 
any  desire  to  be  friendly.  There  is  a  very  filthy  fellow 
who  collects  cigarette  stubs  on  the  Boul'  Mich',  and  who  is 
always  followed  by  a  starved  yellow  cur.  The  other  day 
I  came  across  them  in  a  little  side  street.  The  man  was 
stretched  on  the  pavement  brutishly  drunk  and  dead  to 
the  world.  The  dog,  lying  by  his  side,  seemed  to  look  at 
me  with  sad,  imploring  eyes.  Though  all  the  world  despise 
that  man,  I  thought,  this  poor  brute  loves  him  and  will  be 
faithful  unto  death. 

From  this  incident  I  wrote  the  verses  that  follow : 


132  THE  OUTLAW 


THE  OUTLAW 

• 

A  wild  and  woeful  race  he  ran 
Of  lust  and  sin  by  land  and  sea; 
Until,  abhorred  of  God  and  man, 
They  swung  him  from  the  gallows-tree. 
And  then  he  climbed  the  Starry  Stair, 
And  dumb  and  naked  and  alone, 
With  head  unbowed  and  brazen  glare, 
He  stood  before  the  Judgment  Throne. 

The  Keeper  of  the  Records  spoke: 
'  This  man,  O  Lord,  has  mocked  Thy  Name. 
The  weak  have  wept  beneath  his  yoke, 
The  strong  have  fled  before  his  flame. 
The  blood  of  babes  is  on  his  sword; 
His  life  is  evil  to  the  brim: 
Look  down,  decree  his  doom,  O  Lord! 
Lo !  there  is  none  will  speak  for  him." 

The  golden  trumpets  blew  a  blast 
That  echoed  in  the  crypts  of  Hell, 
For  there  was  Judgment  to  be  passed, 
And  lips  were  hushed  and  silence  fell. 
The  man  was  mute;  he  made  no  stir, 
Erect  before  the  Judgment  Seat  .   .   . 
When  all  at  once  a  mongrel  cur 
Crept  out  and  cowered  and  licked  his  feet. 

It  licked  his  feet  with  whining  cry. 

Come  Heav'n,  come  Hell,  what  did  it  care? 


THE  OUTLAW  133 

It  leapt,  it  tried  to  catch  his  eye; 
Its  master,  yea,  its  God  was  there. 
Then,  as  a  thrill  of  wonder  sped 
Through  throngs  of  shining  seraphim, 
The  Judge  of  All  looked  down  and  said : 
"  Lo !  here  is  ONE  who  pleads  for  him. 

"  And  who  shall  love  of  these  the  least, 
And  who  by  word  or  look  or  deed 
Shall  pity  show  to  bird  or  beast, 
By  Me  shall  have  a  friend  in  need. 
Aye,  though  his  sin  be  black  as  night, 
And  though  he  stand  'mid  men  alone, 
He  shall  be  softened  in  My  sight, 
And  find  a  pleader  by  My  Throne. 

"  So  let  this  man  to  glory  win; 
From  life  to  life  salvation  glean; 
By  pain  and  sacrifice  and  sin, 
Until  he  stand  before  Me  —  clean. 
For  he  who  loves  the  least  of  these 
(And  here  I  say  and  here  repeat) 
Shall  win  himself  an  angel's  pleas 
For  Mercy  at  My  Judgment  Seat." 

I  take  my  exercise  in  the  form  of  walking.  It  keeps 
me  fit  and  leaves  me  free  to  think.  In  this  way  I  have  come 
to  know  Paris  like  my  pocket.  I  have  explored  its  large 
and  little  streets,  its  stateliness  and  its  slums. 

But  most  of  all  I  love  the  Quays,  between  the  leafage 
and  the  sunlit  Seine.  Like  shuttles  the  little  steamers  dart 
up  and  down,  weaving  the  water  into  patterns  of  foam. 


134  THE  WALKERS 

Cigar-shaped  barges  stream  under  the  lacework  of  the  many 
bridges  and  make  me  think  of  tranquil  days  and  willow- 
fringed  horizons. 

But  what  I  love  most  is  the  stealing  in  of  night,  when 
the  sky  takes  on  that  strange  elusive  purple ;  when  eyes  turn 
to  the  evening  star  and  marvel  at  its  brightness;  when  the 
Eiffel  Tower  becomes  a  strange,  shadowy  stairway  yearn- 
ing in  impotent  effort  to  the  careless  moon. 

Here  is  my  latest  ballad,  short  if  not  very  sweet: 

THE  WALKERS 

(He  speaks.) 

Walking,  walking,  oh,  the  joy  of  walking! 
Swinging  down  the  tawny  lanes  with  head  held  high ; 
Striding  up   the   green   hills,   through   the   heather 

stalking, 
Swishing  through  the  woodlands  where  the  brown 

leaves  lie; 

Marveling  at  all  things  —  windmills  gaily  turning, 
Apples  for  the  cider-press,  ruby-hued  and  gold; 
Tails  of  rabbits  twinkling,  scarlet  berries  burning, 
Wedge  of  geese  high-flying  in  the  sky's  clear  cold, 
Light  in  little  windows,  field  and  furrow  darkling; 
Home  again  returning,  hungry  as  a  hawk; 
Whistling     up     the     garden,     ruddy-cheeked     and 

sparkling, 
Oh,  but  I  am  happy  as  I  walk,  walk,  walk! 

(She  speaks.) 
Walking,  walking,  oh,  the  curse  of  walking! 


THE  WALKERS  135 

Slouching  round  the  grim  square,  shuffling  up  the 

street, 

Slinking  down  the  by-way,  all  my  graces  hawking, 
Offering  my  body  to  each  man  I  meet. 
Peering  in  the  gin-shop  where  the  lads  are  drinking, 
Trying  to  look  gay-like,  crazy  with  the  blues; 
Halting  in  a  doorway,  shuddering  and  shrinking 
(Oh,  my  draggled  feather  and  my  thin,  wet  shoes). 
Here's    a    drunken    drover:     "Hullo,    there,    old 

dearie !  " 

No,  he  only  curses,  can't  be  got  to  talk.  .  .   . 
On  and  on  till  daylight,  famished,  wet  and  weary, 
God  in  Heaven  help  me  as  I  walk,  walk,  walk! 

Ill 

THE  CAFE  DE  LA  SOURCE, 

Late  in  July  1914. 

The  other  evening  MacBean  was  in  a  pessimistic  mood. 

"Why  do  you  write?"  he  asked  me  gloomily. 

"  Obviously,"  I  said,  "  to  avoid  starving.  To  produce 
something  that  will  buy  me  food,  shelter,  raiment." 

"  If  you  were  a  millionaire,  would  you  still  write?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  You  get 
an  idea.  It  haunts  you.  It  seems  to  clamor  for  ex- 
pression. It  begins  to  obsess  you.  At  last  in  desperation 
you  embody  it  in  a  poem,  an  essay,  a  story.  There!  it  is 
disposed  of.  You  are  at  rest.  It  troubles  you  no  more. 
Yes;  if  I  were  a  millionaire  I  should  write,  if  it  were  only 
to  escape  from  my  ideas." 

"  You  have  given  two  reasons  why  men  write,"  said  Mac- 
Bean  :  "  for  gain,  for  self-expression.  Then,  again,  some 


336  THE  WALKERS 

men  write  to  amuse  themselves,  some  because  they  conceive 
they  have  a  mission  in  the  world;  some  because  they  have 
real  genius,  and  are  conscious  they  can  enrich  the  literature 
of  all  time.  I  must  say  I  don't  know  of  any  belonging  to 
the  latter  class.  We  are  living  in  an  age  of  mediocrity. 
There  is  no  writer  of  to-day  who  will  be  read  twenty  years 
after  he  is  dead.  That's  a  truth  that  must  come  home  to 
the  best  of  them." 

"  I  guess  they're  not  losing  much  sleep  over  it,"  I  said. 

"  Take  novelists,"  continued  MacBean.  "  The  line  of 
first-class  novelists  ended  with  Dickens  and  Thackeray. 
Then  followed  some  of  the  second  class,  Stevenson,  Mere- 
dith, Hardy.  And  to-day  we  have  three  novelists  of  the 
third  class,  good,  capable  craftsmen.  We  can  trust  our- 
selves comfortably  in  their  hands.  We  read  and  enjoy  them, 
but  do  you  think  our  children  will?  " 

"  Yours  won't,  anyway,"  I  said. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure.  I  may  surprise  you  yet.  I  may 
get  married  and  turn  bourgeois." 

The  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  MacBean  would  be 
that.  It  might  change  his  point  of  view.  He  is  so  pain- 
fully discouraging.  I  have  never  mentioned  my  ballads 
to  him.  He  would  be  sure  to  throw  cold  water  on  them. 
And  as  it  draws  near  to  its  end  the  thought  of  my  book 
grows  more  and  more  dear  to  me.  How  I  will  get  it  pub- 
lished I  know  not;  but  I  will.  Then  even  if  it  doesn't 
sell,  even  if  nobody  reads  it,  I  will  be  content.  Out  of  this 
brief,  perishable  Me  I  will  have  made  something  concrete, 
something  that  will  preserve  my  thought  within  its  dusty- 
covers  long  after  I  am  dead  and  dust. 

Here  is  one  of  my  latest: 


POOR  PETER         137 


POOR  PETER 

Blind  Peter  Piper  used  to  play 
All  up  and  down  the  city; 
I'd  often  meet  him  on  my  way, 
And  throw  a  coin  for  pity. 
But  all  amid  his  sparkling  tones 
His  ear  was  quick  as  any 
To  catch  upon  the  cobble-stones 
The  jingle  of  my  penny. 

And  as  upon  a  day  that  shone 

He  piped  a  merry  measure  : 

"  How  well  you  play!  "  I  chanced  to  say; 

Poor  Peter  glowed  with  pleasure. 

You'd  think  the  words  of  praise  I  spoke 

Were  all  the  pay  he  needed; 

The  artist  in  the  player  woke, 

The  penny  lay  unheeded. 

Now  Winter's  here;  the  wind  is  shrill, 
His  coat  is  thin  and  tattered; 
Yet  hark!  he's  playing  trill  on  trill 
As  if  his  music  mattered. 
And  somehow  though  the  city  looks 
Soaked  through  and  through  with  shadows, 
He  makes  you  think  of  singing  brooks 
And  larks  and  sunny  meadows. 

Poor  chap!  he  often  starves,  they  say; 
Well,  well,  I  can  believe  it; 


138  THE  WISTFUL  ONE 

For  when  you  chuck  a  coin  his  way 
He'll  let  some  street-boy  thieve  it. 
I  fear  he  freezes  in  the  night; 
My  praise  I've  long  repented, 
Yet  look!  his  face  is  all  alight  .   . 
Blind  Peter  seems  contented. 


A  day  later. 

On  the  terrace  of  the  Closerie  de  Lilas  I  came  on  Saxon 
Dane.  He  was  smoking  his  big  briar  and  drinking  a  huge 
glass  of  brown  beer.  The  tree  gave  a  pleasant  shade,  and 
he  had  thrown  his  sombrero  on  a  chair.  I  noted  how  his 
high  brow  was  bronzed  by  the  sun  and  there  were  golden 
lights  in  his  broad  beard.  There  was  something  massive 
and  imposing  in  the  man  as  he  sat  there  in  brooding  thought. 

MacBean,  he  told  me,  was  sick  and  unable  to  leave  his 
room.  Rheumatism.  So  I  bought  a  cooked  chicken  and 
a  bottle  of  Barsac,  and  mounting  to  the  apartment  of  the 
invalid,  I  made  him  eat  and  drink.  MacBean  was  very 
despondent,  but  cheered  up  greatly. 

I  think  he  rather  dreads  the  future.  He  cannot  save 
money,  and  all  he  makes  he  spends.  He  has  always  been 
a  rover,  often  tried  to  settle  down  but  could  not.  Now  I 
think  he  wishes  for  security.  I  fear,  however,  it  is  too  late. 


THE  WISTFUL  ONE 

I  sought  the  trails  of  South  and  North, 
I  wandered  East  and  West; 
But  pride  and  passion  drove  me  forth 
And  would  not  let  me  rest. 


IF  YOU  HAD  A  FRIEND  139 

And  still  I  seek,  as  still  I  roam, 
A  snug  roof  overhead; 
Four  walls,  my  own;  a  quiet  home.   .   .   . 
'  You'll  have  it  —  when  you're  dead." 

MacBean  is  one  of  Bohemia's  victims.  It  is  a  country 
of  the  young.  The  old  have  no  place  in  it.  He  will  grad- 
ually lose  his  grip,  go  down  and  down.  I  am  sorry.  He  is 
my  nearest  approach  to  a  friend.  I  do  not  make  them 
easily.  I  have  deep  reserves.  I  like  solitude.  I  am  never 
so  surrounded  by  boon  companions  as  when  I  am  all  alone. 

But  though  I  am  a  solitary  I  realize  the  beauty  of  friend- 
ship, and  on  looking  through  my  note-book  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing : 

IF  YOU  HAD  A  FRIEND 

If  you  had  a  friend  strong,  simple,  true, 
Who  knew  your  faults  and  who  understood; 
Who  believed  in  the  very  best  of  you, 
And  who  cared  for  you  as  a  father  would; 
Who  would  stick  by  you  to  the  very  end, 
Who  would  smile  however  the  world  might  frown: 
I'm  sure  you  would  try  to  please  your  friend, 
You  never  would  think  to  throw  him  down. 

And  supposing  your  friend  was  high  and  great, 
And  he  lived  in  a  palace  rich  and  tall, 
And  sat  like  a  King  in  shining  state, 
And  his  praise  was  loud  on  the  lips  of  all; 
Well  then,  when  he  turned  to  you  alone, 
And  he  singled  you  out  from  all  the  crowd, 


1 40  IF  YOU  HAD  A  FRIEND 

And  he  called  you  up  to  his  golden  throne, 
Oh,  wouldn't  you  just  be  jolly  proud? 

If  you  had  a  friend  like  this,  I  say, 

So  sweet  and  tender,  so  strong  and  true, 

You'd  try  to  please  him  in  every  way, 

You'd  live  at  your  bravest  —  now,  wouldn't  you? 

His  worth  would  shine  in  the  words  you  penned; 

You'd  shout  his  praises  .  .   .  yet  now  it's  odd ! 

You  tell  me  you  haven't  got  such  a  friend; 

You  haven't?     I  wonder  .   .   .  What  of  God? 

To  how  few  is  granted  the  privilege  of  doing  the  work 
which  lies  closest  to  the  heart,  the  work  for  which  one  is 
best  fitted.  The  happy  man  is  he  who  knows  his  limitations, 
yet  bows  to  no  false  gods. 

MacBean  is  not  happy.  He  is  overridden  by  his  appe- 
tites, and  to  satisfy  them  he  whites  stuff  that  in  his  heart 
he  despises. 

Saxon  Dane  is  not  happy.  His  dream  exceeds  his  grasp. 
His  twisted,  tortured  phrases  mock  the  vague  grandiosity 
of  his  visions. 

I  am  happy.  My  talent  is  proportioned  to  my  ambition. 
The  things  I  like  to  write  are  the  things  I  like  to  read.  I 
prefer  the  lesser  poets  to  the  greater,  the  cackle  of  the  barn- 
yard fowl  to  the  scream  of  the  eagle.  I  lack  the  divinity 
of  discontent. 

True  Contentment  comes  from  within.  It  dominates 
circumstance.  It  is  resignation  wedded  to  philosophy,  a 
Christian  quality  seldom  attained  except  by  the  old. 

There  is  such  an  one  I  sometimes  see  being  wheeled  about 
in  the  Luxembourg.  His  face  is  beautiful  in  its  thankful- 
ness. 


THE  CONTENTED  MAN     141 


THE  CONTENTED  MAN 

"  How  good  God  is  to  me,"  he  said; 

"  For  have  I  not  a  mansion  tall, 

With  trees  and  lawns  of  velvet  tread, 

And  happy  helpers  at  my  call? 

With  beauty  is  my  life  abrim, 

With  tranquil  hours  and  dreams  apart; 

You  wonder  that  I  yield  to  Him 

That  best  of  prayers,  a  grateful  heart?  " 

"  How  good  God  is  to  me,"  he  said; 

u  For  look!  though  gone  is  all  my  wealth, 

How  sweet  it  is  to  earn  one's  bread 

With  brawny  arms  and  brimminnr  health. 

Oh,  now  I  know  the  joy  of  strife! 

To  sleep  so  sound,  to  wake  so  fit. 

Ah  yes,  how  glorious  is  life  ! 

I  thank  Him  for  each  day  of  it." 

"  How  good  God  is  to  me,"  he  said; 

"  Though  health  and  wealth  are  gone,  it's  true; 

Things  might  be  worse,  I  might  be  dead, 

And  here  I'm  living,  laughing  too. 

Serene  beneath  the  evening  sky 

I  wait,  and  every  man's  my  friend; 

God's  most  contented  man  am  I   ... 

He  keeps  me  smiling  to  the  End." 

To-day  the  basin  of  the  Luxembourg  is  bright  with  little 
boats.     Hundreds  of  happy  children  romp  around  it.     Little 


i42     SPIRIT  OF  THE  UNBORN  BABE 

ones  everywhere;  yet  there  is  no  other  city  with  so  many 
childless  homes. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  UNBORN  BABE 

The  Spirit  of  the  Unborn  Babe  peered  through  the 

window-pane, 
Peered  through  the  window-pane  that  glowed  like 

beacon  in  the  night; 
For,  oh,  the  sky  was  desolate  and  wild  with  wind 

and  rain; 
And  how  the  little  room  was  crammed  with  coziness 

and  light! 
Except  the  flirting  of  the  fire  there  was  no  sound 

at  all; 
The  Woman  sat  beside  the  hearth,  her  knitting  on 

her  knee ; 
The  shadow  of  her  husband's  head  was  dancing  on 

the  wall; 
She  looked  with  staring  eyes  at  it,  she  looked  yet 

did  not  see. 
She  only  saw  a  childish  face  that  topped  the  table 

rim, 
A  little  wistful  ghost  that  smiled  and  vanished  quick 

away; 
And  then  because  her  tender  eyes  were  flooding  to 

the  brim, 
She  lowered  her  head.   ..."  Don't  sorrow,  dear," 

she  heard  him  softly  say; 
"  It's  over  now.     We'll  try  to  be  as  happy  as  before 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  UNBORN  BABE     143 

(Ah!  they  who  little  children  have,  grant  hostages 

to  pain) . 
We  gave  Life  chance  to  wound  us  once,  but  never, 

never  more.   .   .   ." 
The  Spirit  of  the  Unborn  Babe  fled  through  the 

night  again. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Unborn  Babe  went  wildered  in  the 

dark; 
Like  termagants  the  winds  tore  down  and  whirled 

it  with  the  snow. 
And  then  amid  the  writhing  storm  it  saw   a   tiny 

spark, 
A   window   broad,    a    spacious    room    all    goldenly 

aglow, 
A  woman   slim   and   Paris-gowned   and   exquisitely 

fair, 
Who  smiled  with  rapture  as  she  watched  her  jewels 

catch  the  blaze; 
A  man  in  faultless  evening  dress,  young,  handsome, 

debonnaire, 
Who  smoked  his  cigarette  and  looked  with  frank 

admiring  gaze. 
"Oh,    we     are    happy,    sweet,"    said   he;    "youth, 

health,  and  wealth  are  ours. 
What  if  a  thousand  toil  and  sweat  that  we  may  live 

at  easeJ 
What  if  the  hands  are  worn  and  torn  that  strew 

our  path  with  flowers! 
Ah,  well!  we  did  not  make  the  world;  let  us  not 

think  of  these. 


144     SPIRIT  OF  THE  UNBORN  BABE 

Let's  seek  the  beauty-spots  of  earth,  Dear  Heart, 

just  you  and  I; 
Let  other  women  bring  forth  life  with  sorrow  and 

with  pain. 
Above  our  door  we'll  hang  the  sign :     '  No  children 

need  apply.  .   .  .'  " 
The  Spirit  of  the  Unborn  Babe  sped  through  the 

night  again. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Unborn  Babe  went  whirling  on 

and  on; 

It  soared  above  a  city  vast,  it  swept  down  to  a  slum; 
It   saw  within   a   grimy   house   a   light   that   dimly 

shone; 
It  peered  in  through  a  window-pane  and  lo !  a  voice 

said:     "Come!" 

And  so  a  little  girl  was  born  amid  the  dirt  and  din, 
And   lived  in   spite   of   everything,   for   life   is   or- 
dered so; 
A  child  whose  eyes  first  opened  wide  to  swinishness 

and  sin, 
A  child  whose  love  and  innocence  met  only  curse  and 

blow. 
And  so  in  due  and  proper  course  she  took  the  path 

of  shame, 
And  gladly  died   in  hospital,   quite   old   at   twenty 

years; 
And  when  God  comes  to  weigh  it  all,  ah  !  whose  shall 

be  the  blame 
For  all  her  maimed  and  poisoned  life,  her  torture 

and  her  tears? 


SPIRIT  OF  THE  UNBORN  BABE     145 

For  oh,  it  is  not  what  we  do,  but  what  we  have  not 

done! 
And  on  that  day  of  reckoning,  when  all  is  plain  and 

clear, 
What  if  we  stand  before  the  Throne,  blood-guilty 

every  one?  .   .   . 
Maybe  the  blackest  sins  of  all  are  Selfishness  and 

Fear. 

IV 

THE  CAFE  DE  LA  PAIX, 
August  i,  1914. 

Paris  and  I  are  out  of  tune.  As  I  sit  at  this  famous  cor- 
ner the  faint  breeze  is  stale  and  weary;  stale  and  weary  too 
the  faces  that  swirl  around  me ;  while  overhead  the  electric 
sign  of  Somebody's  Chocolate  appears  and  vanishes  with 
irritating  insistency.  The  very  trees  seem  artificial,  gleam- 
ing under  the  arc-lights  with  a  raw  virility  that  rasps  my 
nerves. 

"  Poor  little  trees,"  I  mutter,  "  growing  in  all  this  grime 
and  glare,  your  only  dryads  the  loitering  ladies  with  the 
complexions  of  such  brilliant  certainty,  your  only  Pipes  of 
Pan  orchestral  echoes  from  the  clamorous  cafes.  Exiles 
of  the  forest!  what  know  you  of  full-blossomed  winds,  of 
red-embered  sunsets,  of  the  gentle  admonition  of  spring 
rain!  Life,  that  would  fain  be  a  melody,  seems  here  almost 
a  malady.  I  crave  for  the  balm  of  Nature,  the  anodyne  of 
solitude,  the  breath  of  Mother  Earth.  Tell  me,  O  wistful 
trees,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Then  that  stale  and  weary  wind  rustles  the  leaves  of  the 
nearest  sycamore,  and  I  am  sure  it  whispers:  "Brittany." 

So  to-morrow  I  am  off,  off  to  the  Land  of  Little  Fields. 


i46  FINISTERE 


FINISTERE 

Hurrah !     I'm    off    to    Finistere,    to    Finistere,    to 

Finistere; 
My  satchel's  swinging  on  my  back,  my  staff  is  in  my 

hand; 
I've  twenty  louls  in  my  purse,  I  know  the  sun  and 

sea  are  there, 
And  so  I'm  starting  out  to-day  to  tramp  the  golden 

land. 
I'll  go  alone  and  glorying,  with  on  my  lips  a  song 

of  joy; 
I'll  leave  behind  the  city  with  its  canker  and  its 

care; 
I'll  swing  along  so  sturdily  —  oh,  won't  I  be  the 

happy  boy! 
A-singing  on  the  rocky  roads,  the  roads  of  Finistere. 

Oh,  have  you  been  to  Finistere,  and  do  you  know 

a  whin-gray  town 
That  echoes  to  the  clatter  of  a  thousand  wooden 

shoes? 
And  have  you  seen  the  fisher-girls  go  galivantin'  up 

and  down, 
And  watched  the  tawny  boats  go  out,  and  heard  the 

roaring  crews? 
Oh,  would  you  sit  with  pipe  and  bowl,  and  dream 

upon  some  sunny  quay, 
Or  would  you  walk  the  windy  heath  and  drink  the 

cooler  air; 


FINISTERE  147 

Oh,  would  you  seek  a  cradled  cove  and  tussle  with 

the  topaz  sea  !  — 
Pack   up   your   kit   to-morrow,    lad,    and   haste   to 

Finistere. 

Oh,  I  will  go  to  Finistere,  there's  nothing  that  can 

hold  me  back. 
I'll  laugh  with  Yves  and  Leon,  and  I'll  chaff  with 

Rose  and  Jeanne; 
I'll   seek   the   little,   quaint   buvette   that's  kept   by 

Mother  Merdrinac, 
Who  wears  a  cap  of  many  frills,  and  swears  just 

like  a  man. 
I'll  yarn  with  hearty,  hairy  chaps  who  dance  and 

leap  and  crack  their  heels; 
Who  swallow  cupfuls  of  cognac  and  never  turn  a 

hair; 
I'll  watch  the  nut-brown  boats  come  in  with  mullet, 

plaice  and  conger  eels, 
The    jeweled    harvest    of    the    sea    they    reap    in 

Finistere. 

Yes,  I'll  come  back  from  Finistere  with  memories 
of  shining  days, 

Of  scaly  nets  and  salty  men  in  overalls  of  brown; 

Of  ancient  women  knitting  as  they  watch  the  teth- 
ered cattle  graze 

By  little  nestling  beaches  where  the  gorse  goes 
blazing  down; 

Of  headlands  silvering  the  sea,  of  Calvarys  against 
the  sky, 


148  OLD  DAVID  SMAIL 

Of  scorn  of  angry  sunsets,  and  of  Carnac  grim  and 

bare; 
Oh,  won't  I  have  the  leaping  veins,  and  tawny  cheek 

and  sparkling  eye, 
When  I  come  back  to  Montparnasse  and  dream  of 

Finistere. 

Two  days  later. 

Behold  me  with  staff  and  scrip,  footing  it  merrily  in  the 
Land  of  Pardons.  I  have  no  goal.  When  I  am  weary  I 
stop  at  some  auberge;  when  I  am  rested  I  go  on  again. 
Neither  do  I  put  any  constraint  on  my  spirit.  No  subduing 
of  the  mind  to  the  task  of  the  moment.  I  dream  to  heart's 
content. 

My  dreams  stretch  into  the  future.  I  see  myself  a  singer 
of  simple  songs,  a  laureate  of  the  under-dog.  I  will  write 
books,  a  score  of  them.  I  will  voyage  far  and  wide.  I 
will  .  .  . 

But  there !  Dreams  are  dangerous.  They  waste  the  time 
one  should  spend  in  making  them  come  true.  Yet  when  we 
do  make  them  come  true,  we  find  the  vision  sweeter  than 
the  reality.  How  much  of  our  happiness  do  we  owe  to 
dreams?  I  have  in  mind  one  old  chap  who  used  to  herd 
the  sheep  on  my  uncle's  farm. 


OLD  DAVID  SMAIL 

He  dreamed  away  his  hours  in  school; 
He  sat  with  such  an  absent  air, 
The  master  reckoned  him  a  fool, 
And  gave  him  up  in  dull  despair. 


OLD  DAVID  SMAIL  149 

When  other  lads  were  making  hay 
You'd  find  him  loafing  by  the  stream; 
He'd  take  a  book  and  slip  away, 
And  just  pretend  to  fish  .   .  .   and  dream. 

His  brothers  passed  him  in  the  race; 
They  climbed  the  hill  and  clutched  the  prize. 
He  did  not  seem  to  heed,  his  face 
Was  tranquil  as  the  evening  skies. 

He  lived  apart,  he  spoke  with  few; 
Abstractedly  through  life  he  went; 
Oh,  what  he  dreamed  of  no  one  knew, 
And  yet  he  seemed  to  be  content. 

I  see  him  now,  so  old  and  gray, 
His  eyes  with  inward  vision  dim; 
And  though  he  faltered  on  the  way, 
Somehow  I  almost  envied  him. 

At  last  beside  his  bed  I  stood: 
"  And  is  Life  done  so  soon?  "  he  sighed; 
"  It's  been  so  rich,  so  full,  so  good, 
I've  loved  it  all  .  .  ." —  and  so  he  died. 

Another  day. 

Framed  in  hedgerows  of  emerald,  the  wheat  glows  with 
a  caloric  fervor,  as  if  gorged  with  summer  heat.  In  the 
vivid  green  of  pastures  old  women  are  herding  cows.  Calm 
and  patient  are  their  faces  as  with  gentle  industry  they 
bend  over  their  knitting.  One  feels  that  they  are  necessary 
to  the  landscape. 


150  THE  WONDERER 

To  gaze  at  me  the  field-workers  suspend  the  magnificent 
lethargy  of  their  labors.  The  men  with  the  reaping  hooks 
improve  the  occasion  by  another  pull  at  the  cider  bottle 
under  the  stook;  the  women  raise  apathetic  brown  faces 
from  the  sheaf  they  are  tying;  every  one  is  a  study  in  delib- 
eration, though  the  crop  is  russet  ripe  and  crying  to  be  cut. 

Then  on  I  go  again  amid  high  banks  overgrown  with  fern 
and  honeysuckle.  Sometimes  I  come  on  an  old  mill  that 
seems  to  have  been  constructed  by  Constable,  so  charmingly 
does  Nature  imitate  Art.  By  the  deserted  house,  half 
drowned  in  greenery,  the  velvety  wheel,  dipping  in  the 
crystal  water,  seems  to  protest  against  this  prolongation  of 
its  toil. 

Then  again  I  come  on  its  brother,  the  Mill  of  the  Wind, 
whirling  its  arms  so  cheerily,  as  it  turns  its  great  white 
stones  for  its  master,  the  floury  miller  by  the  door. 

These  things  delight  me.  I  am  in  a  land  where  Time  has 
lagged,  where  simple  people  timorously  hug  the  Past.  How 
far  away  now  seems  the  welter  and  swelter  of  the  city,  the 
hectic  sophistication  of  the  streets.  The  sense  of  wonder 
is  strong  in  me  again,  the  joy  of  looking  at  familiar  things 
as  if  one  were  seeing  them  for  the  first  time. 

THE  WONDERER 

I  wish  that  I  could  understand 

The  moving  marvel  of  my  Hand; 

I  watch  my  fingers  turn  and  twist, 

The  supple  bending  of  my  wrist, 

The  dainty  touch  of  finger-tip, 

The  steel  intensity  of  grip; 

A  tool  of  exquisite  design, 

With  pride  I  think :     "  It's  mine !     It's  mine !  " 


THE  WONDERER  151 

Then  there's  the  wonder  of  my  Eyes, 
Where  hills  and  houses,  seas  and  skies, 
In  waves  of  light  converge  and  pass, 
And  print  themselves  as  on  a  glass. 
Line,  form  and  color  live  in  me; 
I  am  the  Beauty  that  I  see; 
Ah!  I  could  write  a  book  of  size 
About  the  wonder  of  my  Eyes. 

What  of  the  wonder  of  my  Heart, 
That  plays  so  faithfully  its  part? 
I  hear  it  running  sound  and  sweet; 
It  does  not  seem  to  miss  a  beat; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave 
It  never  falters,  stanch  and  brave. 
Alas !  I  wish  I  had  the  art 
To  tell  the  wonder  of  my  Heart. 

Then  oh !  but  how  can  I  explain 
The  wondrous  wonder  of  my  Brain? 
That  marvelous  machine  that  brings 
All  consciousness  of  wonderings; 
That  lets  me  from  myself  leap  out 
And  watch  my  body  walk  about; 
It's  hopeless  —  all  my  words  are  vain 
To  tell  the  wonder  of  my  Brain. 

But  do  not  think,  O  patient  friend, 
Who  reads  these  stanzas  to  the  end, 
That  I  myself  would  glorify.  .  .  . 


152  THE  WONDERER 

You're  just  as  wonderful  as  I, 
And  all  Creation  in  our  view 
Is  quite  as  marvelous  as  you. 
Come,  let  us  on  the  sea-shore  stand 
And  wonder  at  a  grain  of  sand; 
And  then  into  the  meadow  pass 
And  marvel  at  a  blade  of  grass; 
Or  cast  our  vision  high  and  far 
And  thrill  with  wonder  at  a  star; 
A  host  of  stars  —  night's  holy  tent 
Huge-glittering  with  wonderment. 

If  wonder  is  in  great  and  small, 
Then  what  of  Him  who  made  it  all? 
In  eyes  and  brain  and  heart  and  limb 
Let's  see  the  wondrous  work  of  Him. 
In  house  and  hill  and  sward  and  sea, 
In  bird  and  beast  and  flower  and  tree, 
In  everything  from  sun  to  sod, 
The  wonder  and  the  awe  of  God. 

August  9,  1914. 

For  some  time  the  way  has  been  growing  wilder.  Thick- 
set hedges  have  yielded  to  dykes  of  stone,  and  there  is  every 
sign  that  I  am  approaching  the  rugged  region  of  the  coast. 
At  each  point  of  vantage  I  can  see  a  Cross,  often  a  relic  of 
the  early  Christians,  stumpy  and  corroded.  Then  I  come 
on  a  slab  of  gray  stone  upstanding  about  fifteen  feet.  Like 
a  sentinel  on  that  solitary  plain  it  overwhelms  me  with  a 
sense  of  mystery. 

But  as  I  go  on  through  this  desolate  land  these  stones 
become  more  and  more  familiar.  Like  soldiers  they  stand 


OH,  IT  IS  GOOD  153 

i 

in  rank,  extending  over  the  moor.  The  sky  is  cowled  with 
cloud,  save  where  a  sullen  sunset  shoots  blood-red  rays 
across  the  plain.  Bathed  in  that  sinister  light  stands  my 
army  of  stone,  and  a  wind  swooping  down  seems  to  wail 
amid  its  ranks.  As  in  a  glass  darkly  I  can  see  the  skin- 
clad  men,  the  women  with  the  tangled  hair,  the  beast-like 
feast,  the  cowering  terror  of  the  night.  Then  the  sunset 
is  cut  off  suddenly,  and  a  clammy  mist  shrouds  that  silent 
army.  So  it  is  almost  with  a  shudder  I  take  my  last  look 
at  the  Stones  of  Carnac. 

But  now  my  pilgrimage  is  drawing  to  an  end.  A  painter 
friend  who  lives  by  the  sea  has  asked  me  to  stay  with  him 
awhile.  Well,  I  have  walked  a  hundred  miles,  singing  on 
the  way.  I  have  dreamed  and  dawdled,  planned,  exulted. 
I  have  drunk  buckets  of  cider,  and  eaten  many  an  omelette 
that  seemed  like  a  golden  glorification  of  its  egg.  It  has 
all  been  very  sweet,  but  it  will  also  be  sweet  to  loaf  awhile. 

OH,  IT  IS  GOOD 

Oh,  it  is  good  to  drink  and  sup, 
And  then  beside  the  kindly  fire 
To  smoke  and  heap  the  faggots  up, 
And  rest  and  dream  to  heart's  desire. 

Oh,  it  is  good  to  ride  and  run, 

To  roam  the  greenwood  wild  and  free; 

To  hunt,  to  idle  in  the  sun, 

To  leap  into  the  laughing  sea. 

Oh,  it  is  good  with  hand  and  brain 
To  gladly  till  the  chosen  soil, 


i54  OH,  IT  IS  GOOD 

And  after  honest  sweat  and  strain 
To  see  the  harvest  of  one's  toil. 

Oh,  it  is  good  afar  to  roam, 
And  seek  adventure  in  strange  lands; 
Yet  oh,  so  good  the  coming  home, 
The  velvet  love  of  little  hands. 

So  much  is  good.  .  .  .  We  thank  Thee,  God, 
For  all  the  tokens  Thou  hast  given, 
That  here  on  earth  our  feet  have  trod 
Thy  little  shining  trails  of  Heaven. 


August  10,  1914. 

I  am  living  in  a  little  house  so  near  the  sea  that  at  high 
tide  I  can  see  on  my  bedroom  wall  the  reflected  ripple  of 
the  water.  At  night  I  waken  to  the  melodious  welter  of 
waves;  or  maybe  there  is  a  great  stillness,  and  then  I  know 
that  the  sand  and  sea-grass  are  lying  naked  to  the  moon. 
But  soon  the  tide  returns,  and  once  more  I  hear  the  roister- 
ing of  the  waves. 

Calvert,  my  friend,  is  a  lover  as  well  as  a  painter  of  nature. 
He  rises  with  the  dawn  to  see  the  morning  mist  kindle  to 
coral  and  the  sun's  edge  clear  the  hill-crest.  As  he  munches 
his  coarse  bread  and  sips  his  white  wine,  what  dreams  are 
his  beneath  the  magic  changes  of  the  sky!  He  will  paint 
the  same  scene  under  a  dozen  conditions  of  light.  He  has 
looked  so  long  for  Beauty  that  he  has  come  to  see  it  every- 
where. 

I  love  this  friendly  home  of  his.  A  peace  steals  over  my 
spirit,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could  stay  here  always.  Some  day 


I  HAVE  SOME  FRIENDS  155 

I  hope  that  I  too  may  have  such  an  one,  and  that  I  may  write 
like  this: 

I  HAVE  SOME  FRIENDS 

I  have  some  friends,  some  worthy  friends, 

And  worthy  friends  are  rare : 

These  carpet  slippers  on  my  feet, 

That  padded  leather  chair; 

This  old  and  shabby  dressing-gown, 

So  well  the  worse  of  wear. 

I  have  some  friends,  some  honest  friends, 

And  honest  friends  are  few; 

My  pipe  of  briar,  my  open  fire, 

A  book  that's  not  too  new; 

My  bed  so  warm,  the  nights  of  storm 

I  love  to  listen  to. 

I  have  some  friends,  some  good,  good  friends, 

Who  faithful  are  to  me: 

My  wrestling  partner  when  I  rise, 

The  big  and  burly  sea ; 

My  little  boat  that's  riding  there 

So  saucy  and  so  free. 

I  have  some  friends,  some  golden  friends, 

Whose  worth  will  not  decline : 

A  tawny  Irish  terrier,  a  purple  shading  pine, 

A  little  red-roofed  cottage  that 

So  proudly  I  call  mine. 


156  THE  QUEST 

All  other  friends  may  come  and  go, 

All  other  friendships  fail; 

But  these,  the  friends  I've  worked  to  win, 

Oh,  they  will  never  stale; 

And  comfort  me  till  Time  shall  write 

The  finish  to  my  tale. 

Calvert  tries  to  paint  more  than  the  thing  he  sees;  he 
tries  to  paint  behind  it,  to  express  its  spirit.  He  believes 
that  Beauty  is  God  made  manifest,  and  that  when  we  dis- 
cover Him  in  Nature  we  discover  Him  in  ourselves. 

But  Calvert  did  not  always  see  thus.  At  one  time  he 
was  a  Pagan,  content  to  paint  the  outward  aspect  of  things. 
It  was  after  his  little  child  died  he  gained  in  vision.  Maybe 
the  thought  that  the  dead  are  lost  to  us  was  too  unbearable. 
He  had  to  believe  in  a  coming  together  again. 

THE  QUEST 

I  sought  Him  on  the  purple  seas, 

I  sought  Him  on  the  peaks  aflame; 

Amid  the  gloom  of  giant  trees 

And  canyons  lone  I  called  His  name; 

The  wasted  ways  of  earth  I  trod: 

In  vain  !     In  vain  !     I  found  not  God. 

I  sought  Him  in  the  hives  of  men, 

The  cities  grand,  the  hamlets  gray, 

The  temples  old  beyond  my  ken, 

The  tabernacles  of  to-day; 

All  life  that  is,  from  cloud  to  clod 

I  sought.   .   .   .  Alas !  I  found  not  God. 


THE  QUEST  157 

Then  after  roamings  far  and  wide, 

In  streets  and  seas  and  deserts  wild, 

I  came  to  stand  at  last  beside 

The  death-bed  of  my  little  child. 

Lo !  as  I  bent  beneath  the  rod 

I  raised  my  eyes  .   .   .  and  there  was  God. 

A  golden  mile  of  sand  swings  hammock-like  between  two 
tusks  of  rock.  The  sea  is  sleeping  sapphire  that  wakes  to 
cream  and  crash  upon  the  beach.  There  is  a  majesty  in 
the  detachment  of  its  lazy  waves,  and  it  is  good  in  the  night 
to  hear  its  friendly  roar.  Good,  too,  to  leap  forth  with  the 
first  sunshine  and  fall  into  its  arms,  to  let  it  pummel  the 
body  to  living  ecstasy  and  send  one  to  breakfast  glad-eyed 
and  glowing. 

Behind  the  house  the  greensward  slopes  to  a  wheat-field 
that  is  like  a  wall  of  gold.  Here  I  lie  and  laze  away  the 
time,  or  dip  into  a  favorite  book,  Stevenson's  Letters  or 
Belloc's  Path  to  Rome,  Bees  drone  in  the  wild  thyme ;  a 
cuckoo  keeps  calling,  a  lark  spills  jeweled  melody.  Then 
there  is  a  seeming  silence,  but  it  is  the  silence  of  a  deeper 
sound. 

After  all,  Silence  is  only  man's  confession  of  his  deafness. 
Like  Death,  like  Eternity,  it  is  a  word  that  means  noth- 
ing. So  lying  there  I  hear  the  breathing  of  the  trees,  the 
crepitation  of  the  growing  grass,  the  seething  of  the  sap 
and  the  movements  of  innumerable  insects.  Strange  how 
I  think  with  distaste  of  the  spurious  glitter  of  Paris,  of  my 
garret,  even  of  my  poor  little  book. 

I  watch  the  wife  of  my  friend  gathering  poppies  in  the 
wheat.  There  is  a  sadness  in  her  face,  for  it  is  only  a  year 
ago  they  lost  their  little  one.  Often  I  see  her  steal  away  to 
the  village  graveyard,  sitting  silent  for  long  and  long. 


158  THE  OTHER  ONE 


THE  COMFORTER 

As  I  sat  by  my  baby's  bed 

That's  open  to  the  sky, 

There  fluttered  round  and  round  my  head 

A  radiant  butterfly. 

And  as  I  wept  —  of  hearts  that  ache 
The  saddest  in  the  land  — 
It  left  a  lily  for  my  sake, 
And  lighted  on  my  hand. 

I  watched  it,  oh,  so  quietly, 
And  though  it  rose  and  flew, 
As  if  it  fain  would  comfort  me 
It  came  and  came  anew. 

Now,  where  my  darling  lies  at  rest, 
I  do  not  dare  to  sigh, 
For  look!  there  gleams  upon  my  breast 
A  snow-white  butterfly. 

My  friends  will  have  other  children,  and  if  some  day  they 
should  read  this  piece  of  verse,  perhaps  they  will  think  of 
the  city  lad  who  used  to  sit  under  the  old  fig-tree  in  the 
garden  and  watch  the  lizards  sun  themselves  on  the  time- 
worn  wall. 

THE  OTHER  ONE 

"  Gather  around  me,  children  dear; 
The  wind  is  high  and  the  night  is  cold; 


THE  OTHER  ONE  159 

Closer,  little  ones,  snuggle  near; 

Let's  seek  a  story  of  ages  old; 

A  magic  tale  of  a  bygone  day, 

Of  lovely  ladies  and  dragons  dread; 

Come,  for  you're  all  so  tired  of  play, 

We'll  read  till  it's  time  to  go  to  bed." 

So  they  all  are  glad,  and  they  nestle  in, 

And  squat  on  the  rough  old  nursery  rug, 

And  they  nudge  and  hush  as  I  begin, 

And  the  fire  leaps  up  and  all's  so  snug; 

And  there  I  sit  in  the  big  arm-chair, 

And  how  they  are  eager  and  sweet  and  wise, 

And  they  cup  their  chins  in  their  hands  and  stare 

At  the  heart  of  the  flame  with  thoughtful  eyes. 

And  then,  as  I  read  by  the  ruddy  glow 

And  the  little  ones  sit  entranced  and  still  .  .  . 

He's  drawing  near,  ah !  I  know,  I  know 

He's  listening  too,  as  he  always  will. 

He's  there  —  he's  standing  beside  my  knee; 

I  see  him  so  well,  my  wee,  wee  son.  .  .  . 

Oh,  children  dear,  don't  look  at  me  — 

I'm  reading  now  for  —  the  Other  One. 

For  the  firelight  glints  in  his  golden  hair, 
And  his  wondering  eyes  are  fixed  on  my  face, 
And  he  rests  on  the  arm  of  my  easy-chair, 
And  the  book's  a  blur  and  I  lose  my  place: 
And  I  touch  my  lips  to  his  shining  head, 
And    my    voice    breaks    down    and  —  the    story's 
done. 


160  THE  OTHER  ONE 

Oh,  children,  kiss  me  and  go  to  bed : 
Leave  me  to  think  of  the  Other  One. 

Of  the  One  who  will  never  grow  up  at  all, 
Who  will  always  be  just  a  child  at  play, 
Tender  and  trusting  and  sweet  and  small, 
Who  will  never  leave  me  and  go  away; 
Who  will  never  hurt  me  and  give  me  pain; 
Who  will  comfort  me  when  I'm  all  alone; 
A  heart  of  love  that's  without  a  stain, 
Always  and  always  my  own,  my  own. 

Yet  a  thought  shines  out  from  the  dark  of  pain, 

And  it  gives  me  hope  to  be  reconciled: 

That  each  of  us  must  be  born  again, 

And  live  and  die  as  a  little  child; 

So  that  with  souls  all  shining  white, 

White  as  snow  and  without  one  sin, 

We  may  come  to  the  Gates  of  Eternal  Light, 

Where  only  children  may  enter  in. 

So,  gentle  mothers,  don't  ever  grieve 
Because  you  have  lost,  but  kiss  the  rod; 
From  the  depths  of  your  woe  be  glad,  believe 
You've  given  an  angel  unto  God. 
Rejoice !     You've  a  child  whose  youth  endures, 
Who  comes  to  you  when  the  day  is  done, 
Wistful  for  love,  oh,  yours,  just  yours, 
Dearest  of  all,  the  Other  One. 


CATASTROPHE  161 

CATASTROPHE 

BRITTANY, 
August   14,   1914. 

And  now  I  fear  I  must  write  in  another  strain.  Up  to 
this  time  I  have  been  too  happy.  I  have  existed  in  a  magic 
Bohemia,  largely  of  my  own  making.  Hope,  faith,  enthusi- 
asm have  been  mine.  Each  day  has  had  its  struggle,  its 
failure,  its  triumph.  However,  that  is  all  ended.  During 
the  past  week  we  have  lived  breathlessly.  For  in  spite  of 
the  exultant  sunshine  our  spirits  have  been  under  a  cloud,  a 
deepening  shadow  of  horror  and  calamity.  .  .  .  WAR. 

Even  as  I  write,  in  our  little  village  steeple  the  bells 
are  ringing  madly,  and  in  every  little  village  steeple  all 
over  the  land.  As  he  hears  it  the  harvester  checks  his 
scythe  on  the  swing;  the  clerk  throws  down  his  pen;  the 
shopkeeper  puts  up  his  shutters.  Only  in  the  cafes  there 
is  a  clamor  of  voices  and  a  drowning  of  care. 

For  here  every  man  must  fight,  every  home  give  tribute. 
There  is  no  question,  no  appeal.  By  heredity  and  discipline 
all  minds  are  shaped  to  this  great  hour.  So  to-morrow  each 
man  will  seek  his  barracks  and  become  a  soldier  as  com- 
pletely as  if  he  had  never  been  anything  else.  With  the 
same  docility  as  he  dons  his  baggy  red  trousers  will  he  let 
some  muddle-headed  General  hurl  him  to  destruction  for 
some  dubious  gain.  To-day  a  father,  a  home-maker;  to- 
morrow fodder  for  cannon.  So  they  all  go  without  hesita- 
tion, without  bitterness;  and  the  great  military  machine  that 
knows  not  humanity  swings  them  to  their  fate.  I  marvel 
at  the  sense  of  duty,  the  resignation,  the  sacrifice.  It  is 
magnificent,  it  is  FRANCE. 

And  the  Women.  Those  who  wait  and  weep.  Ah! 
to-day  I  have  not  seen  one  who  did  not  weep.  Yes,  one. 


1 62  CATASTROPHE 

She  was  very  old,  and  she  stood  by  her  garden  gate  with 
her  hand  on  the  uplifted  latch.  As  I  passed  she  looked  at 
me  with  eyes  that  did  not  see.  She  had  no  doubt  sons 
and  grandsons  who  must  fight,  and  she  had  good  reason, 
perhaps,  to  remember  the  war  of  soixante-dix.  When  I 
passed  an  hour  later  she  was  still  there,  her  hand  on  the 
uplifted  latch. 

August  3O//J. 

The  men  have  gone.  Only  remain  graybeards,  women 
and  children.  Calvert  and  I  have  been  helping  our  neigh- 
bors to  get  in  the  harvest.  No  doubt  we  aid;  but  there 
with  the  old  men  and  children  a  sense  of  uneasiness  and 
even  shame  comes  over  me.  I  would  like  to  return  to  Paris, 
but  the  railway  is  mobilized.  Each  day  I  grow  more  dis- 
contented. Up  there  in  the  red  North  great  things  are 
doing  and  I  am  out  of  it.  I  am  thoroughly  unhappy. 

Then  Calvert  comes  to  me  with  a  plan.  He  has  a  Ford 
car.  We  will  all  three  go  to  Paris.  He  intends  to  offer 
himself  and  his  car  to  the  Red  Cross.  His  wife  will  nurse. 
So  we  are  very  happy  at  the  solution,  and  to-morrow  we 
are  off. 

PARIS. 

Back  again.  Closed  shutters,  deserted  streets.  How 
glum  everything  is!  Those  who  are  not  mobilized  seem 
uncertain  how  to  turn.  Every  one  buys  the  papers  and 
reads  grimly  of  disaster.  No  news  is  bad  news. 

I  go  to  my  garret  as  to  a  beloved  friend.  Everything  is 
just  as  I  left  it,  so  that  it  seems  I  have  never  been  away. 
I  sigh  with  relief  and  joy.  I  will  take  up  my  work  again. 
Serene  above  the  storm  I  will  watch  and  wait.  Although 
I  have  been  brought  up  in  England  I  am  American  born. 
My  country  is  not  concerned. 


CATASTROPHE  163 

So,  going  to  the  Dome  Cafe,  I  seek  some  of  my  comrades. 
Strange!  They  have  gone.  MacBean,  I  am  told,  is  in 
England.  By  dyeing  his  hair  and  lying  about  his  age  he 
has  managed  to  enlist  in  the  Seaforth  Highlanders.  Saxon 
Dane  too.  He  has  joined  the  Foreign  Legion,  and  even 
now  may  be  fighting. 

Well,  let  them  go.  I  will  keep  out  of  the  mess.  But 
why  did  they  go  ?  I  wish  I  knew.  War  is  murder.  Crim- 
inal folly.  Against  Humanity.  Imperialism  is  at  the  root 
of  it.  We  are  fools  and  dupes.  Yes,  I  will  think  and 
write  of  other  things.  .  .  . 

MacBean  has  enlisted. 

I  hate  violence.  I  would  not  willingly  cause  pain  to  any- 
thing breathing.  I  would  rather  be  killed  than  kill  I  will 
stand  above  the  Battle  and  watch  it  from  afar. 

Dane  is  in  the  Foreign  Legion. 

How  disturbing  it  all  is!  One  cannot  settle  down  to 
anything.  Every  day  I  meet  men  who  tell  the  most  won- 
derful stories  in  the  most  casual  way.  I  envy  them.  I 
too  want  to  have  experiences,  to  live  where  life's  beat  is 
most  intense.  But  that's  a  poor  reason  for  going  to  war. 

And  yet,  though  I  shrink  from  the  idea  of  fighting,  I  might 
in  some  way  help  those  who  are.  MacBean  and  Dane,  for 
example.  Sitting  lonely  in  the  Dome,  I  seem  to  see  their 
ghosts  in  the  corner.  MacBean  listening  with  his  keen, 
sarcastic  smile,  Saxon  Dane  banging  his  great  hairy  fist 
on  the  table  till  the  glasses  jump.  Where  are  they  now? 
Living  a  life  that  I  will  never  know.  When  they  come  back, 
if  they  ever  do,  shall  I  not  feel  shamed  in  their  presence? 
Oh,  this  filthy  war!  Things  were  going  on  so  beautifully. 
We  were  all  so  happy,  so  full  of  ambition,  of  hope ;  laughing 
and  talking  over  pipe  and  bowl,  and  in  our  garrets  seeking 
to  realize  our  dreams.  Ah,  these  days  will  never  come 
again ! 


1 64  CATASTROPHE 

Then,  as  I  sit  there,  Calvert  seeks  me  out.  He  has  joined 
an  ambulance  corps  that  is  going  to  the  Front.  Will  I 
come  in  ? 

"Yes,"  I  say;  "  I'll  do  anything." 

So  it  is  all  settled.     To-morrow  I  give  up  my  freedom. 


I 

BOOK  FOUR 
WINTER 


I 

THE  SOMME  FRONT, 

January  1915. 

There  is  an  avenue  of  noble  beeches  leading  to  the 
Chateau,  and  in  the  shadow  of  each  glimmers  the  pale  oblong 
of  an  ambulance.  We  have  to  keep  them  thus  concealed, 
for  only  yesterday  morning  a  Taube  flew  over.  The  beg- 
gars are  rather  partial  to  Red  Cross  cars.  One  of  our  chaps, 
taking  in  a  load  of  wounded,  was  chased  and  pelted  the 
other  day. 

The  Chateau  seems  all  spires  and  towers,  the  glorified 
dream  of  a  Parisian  pastrycook.  On  its  terrace  figures  in 
khaki  are  lounging.  They  are  the  volunteers,  the  owner- 
drivers  of  the  Corps,  many  of  them  men  of  wealth  and  title. 
Curious  to  see  one  who  owns  all  the  coal  in  two  counties 
proudly  signing  for  his  sou  a  day;  or  another,  who  lives  in 
a  Fifth  Avenue  palace,  contentedly  sleeping  on  the  straw- 
strewn  floor  of  a  hovel. 

Here  is  a  rhyme  I  have  made  of  such  an  one: 

PRISCILLA 

Jerry  MacMullen,  the  millionaire, 
Driving  a  red-meat  bus  out  there  — 
How  did  he  win  his  Crolx  de  Guerre? 
Bless  you,  that's  all  old  stuff : 
Beast  of  a  night  on  the  Verdun  road, 
Jerry  stuck  with  a  woeful  load, 
167 


i68  PRISCILLA 

Stalled  in  the  mud  where  the  red  lights  glowed, 
Prospect  devilish  tough. 

"  Little  Priscilla  "  he  called  his  car, 
Best  of  our  battered  bunch  by  far, 
Branded  with  many  a  bullet  scar, 
Yet  running  so  sweet  and  true. 
Jerry  he  loved  her,  knew  her  tricks; 
Swore :    "  She's  the  beat  of  the  best  big  six, 
And  if  ever  I  get  in  a  deuce  of  a  fix 
Priscilla  will  pull  me  through." 

"  Looks  pretty  rotten  right  now,"  says  he; 
"  Hanged  if  the  devil  himself  could  see. 
Priscilla,  it's  up  to  you  and  me 
To  show  'em  what  we  can  do." 
Seemed  that  Priscilla  just  took  the  word; 
Up  with  a  leap  like  a  horse  that's  spurred, 
On  with  the  joy  of  a  homing  bird, 
Swift  as  the  wind  she  flew. 

Shell-holes  shoot  at  them  out  of  the  night; 

A  lurch  to  the  left,  a  wrench  to  the  right, 

Hands  grim-gripping  and  teeth  clenched  tight, 

Eyes  that  glare  through  the  dark. 

"  Priscilla,  you're  doing  me  proud  this  day; 

Hospital's  only  a  league  away, 

And,  honey,  I'm  longing  to  hit  the  hay, 

So  hurry,  old  girl.   .   .  .   But  hark!  " 

Howl  of  a  shell,  harsh,  sudden,  dread; 
Another  .      .   another.          .   "  Strike  me  dead 


PRISCILLA  169 

If  the  Huns  ain't  strafing  the  road  ahead 
So  the  convoy  can't  get  through! 
A  barrage  of  shrap,  and  us  alone; 
Four  rush-cases  —  you  hear  'em  moan? 
Fierce  old  messes  of  blood  and  bone.   .  .  . 
Priscilla,  what  shall  we  do?  " 

Again  it  seems  that  Priscilla  hears. 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  her  way  she  clears, 
Straight  at  the  hell  of  flame  she  steers, 
Full  at  its  heart  of  wrath. 
Fury  of  death  and  dust  and  din! 
Havoc  and  horror!     She's  in,  she's  in; 
She's  almost  over,  she'll  win,  she'll  win ! 
Woof!  Crump!  right  in  the  path. 

Little  Priscilla  skids  and  stops, 
Jerry  MacMullen  sways  and  flops; 
Bang  in  his  map  the  crash  he  cops; 
Shriek  from  the  car :     "  Mon  Dieu  !  " 
One  of  the  blesses  hears  him  say, 
Just  at  the  moment  he  faints  away: 
"  Reckon  this  isn't  my  lucky  day, 
Priscilla,  it's  up  to  you." 

Sergeant  raps  on  the  doctor's  door; 
"  Car  in  the  court  with  couches  four; 
Driver  dead  on  the  dashboard  floor; 
Strange  how  the  bunch  got  here." 
"  No,"  says  the  Doc,  "  this  chap's  alive; 
But  tell  me,  how  could  a  man  contrive 


170  PRISCILLA 

With  both  arms  broken,  a  car  to  drive? 
Thunder  of  God!  it's  queer." 

Same  little  blesse  makes  a  spiel; 
Says  he :      '  When  I  saw  our  driver  reel, 
A  Strange  Shape  leapt  to  the  driving  wheel 
And  sped  us  safe  through  the  night." 
But  Jerry,  he  says  in  his  drawling  tone : 
"  Rats!     Why,  Priscilla  came  in  on  her  own. 
Bless  her,  she  did  it  alone,  alone.   .  .   ." 
Hanged  if  I  know  who's  right. 

As  I  am  sitting  down  to  my  midday  meal  an  orderly  gives 
me  a  telegram: 

Hill  71.     Two  couches.     Send  car  at  once. 

The  uptilted  country-side  is  a  checker-board  of  green  and 
gray,  and,  except  where  groves  of  trees  rise  like  islands, 
cultivated  to  the  last  acre.  But  as  we  near  the  firing-line 
all  efforts  to  till  the  land  cease,  and  the  ungathered  beets  of 
last  year  have  grown  to  seed.  Amid  rank  unkempt  fields  I 
race  over  a  road  that  is  pitted  with  obus-holes;  I  pass  a 
line  of  guns  painted  like  snakes,  and  drawn  by  horses  dyed 
khaki-color;  then  soldiers  coming  from  the  trenches,  mud- 
caked  and  ineffably  weary;  then  a  race  over  a  bit  of  road 
that  is  exposed;  then,  buried  in  the  hill-side,  the  dressing 
station. 

The  two  wounded  are  put  into  my  car.  From  hip  to  heel 
one  is  swathed  in  bandages;  the  other  has  a  great  white 
turban  on  his  head,  with  a  red  patch  on  it  that  spreads  and 
spreads.  They  stare  dully,  but  make  no  sound.  As  I  crank 
the  car  there  is  a  shrill  screaming  noise.  .  .  .  About  thirty 


A  CASUALTY  171 

yards  away  I  hear  an  explosion  like  a  mine-blast,  followed 
by  a  sudden  belch  of  coal-black  smoke.  I  stare  at  it  in  a 
dazed  way.  Then  the  doctor  says:  "Don't  trouble  to 
analyze  your  sensations.  Better  get  off.  You're  only  draw- 
ing their  fire." 

Here  is  one  of  my  experiences: 

A  CASUALTY 

That  boy  I  took  in  the  car  last  night, 
With  the  body  that  awfully  sagged  away, 
And    the    lips   blood-crisped,    and   the    eyes    flame- 
bright, 

And  the  poor  hands  folded  and  cold  as  clay  — 
Oh,  I've  thought  and  I've  thought  of  him  all  the 
day. 

For  the  weary  old  doctor  says  to  me : 

"  He'll  only  last  for  an  hour  or  so. 

Both  of  his  legs  below  the  knee 

Blown  off  by  a  bomb.  .   .   .   So,  lad,  go  slow, 

And  please  remember,  he  doesn't  know." 

So  I  tried  to  drive  with  never  a  jar; 
And  there  was  I  cursing  the  road  like  mad, 
When  I  hears  a  ghost  of  a  voice  from  the  car: 
"  Tell  me,  old  chap,  have  I  '  copped  it '  bad?  " 
So  I  answers  "  No,"  and  he  says,  "  I'm  glad." 

"  Glad,"  says  he,  "  for  at  twenty-two 

Life's  so  splendid,  I  hate  to  go. 

There's  so  much  good  that  a  chap  might  do, 


172  A  CASUALTY 

And  Fve  fought  from  the  start  and  I've  suffered  so. 
'Twould  be  hard  to  get  knocked  out  now,  you  know." 

"  Forget  it,"  says  I ;  then  I  drove  awhile, 

And  I  passed  him  a  cheery  word  or  two; 

But  he  didn't  answer  for  many  a  mile, 

So  just  as  the  hospital  hove  in  view, 

Says  I :     "Is  there  nothing  that  I  can  do?  " 

Then  he  opens  his  eyes  and  he  smiles  at  me ; 
And  he  takes  my  hand  in  his  trembling  hold; 
"Thank  you  —  you're  far  too  kind,"  says  he: 
"  I'm  awfully  comfy  —  stay  .   .   .  let's  see  : 
I  fancy  my  blanket's  come  unrolled  — 
My    feet,    please    wrap    'em  —  they're    cold  .  .  . 
they're  cold." 

There  is  a  city  that  glitters  on  the  plain.  Afar  off  we 
can  see  its  tall  cathedral  spire,  and  there  we  often  take  our 
wounded  from  the  little  village  hospitals  to  the  rail-head. 
Tragic  little  buildings,  these  emergency  hospitals  —  town- 
halls,  churches,  schools;  their  cots  are  never  empty,  their 
surgeons  never  still. 

So  every  day  we  get  our  list  of  cases  and  off  we  go,  a  long 
line  of  cars  swishing  through  the  mud.  Then  one  by  one 
we  branch  off  to  our  village  hospital,  puzzling  out  the  road 
on  our  maps.  Arrived  there,  we  load  up  quickly. 

The  wounded  make  no  moan.  They  lie,  limp,  heavily 
bandaged,  with  bare  legs  and  arms  protruding  from  their 
blankets.  They  do  not  know  where  they  are  going;  they 
do  not  care.  Like  live  stock,  they  are  labeled  and  num- 
bered. An  orderly  brings  along  their  battle-scarred  equip- 


THE  BLOOD-RED  FOURRAGERE     173 

ment,  throwing  open  their  rifles  to  see  that  no  charge  re- 
mains. Sometimes  they  shake  our  hands  and  thank  us  for 
the  drive. 

In  the  streets  of  the  city  I  see  French  soldiers  wearing 
the  fourragere.  It  is  a  cord  of  green,  yellow  or  red,  and 
corresponds  to  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  the  Medaille  militaire 
and  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  red  is  the  highest  of  all, 
and  has  been  granted  only  to  one  or  two  regiments.  This 
incident  was  told  to  me  by  a  man  who  saw  it : 

THE  BLOOD-RED  FOURRAGERE 

What  was  the  blackest  sight  to  me 

Of  all  that  campaign? 

A  naked  woman  tied  to  a  tree 

With  jagged  holes  where  her  breasts  should  be, 

Rotting  there  in  the  rain. 

On  we  pressed  to  the  battle  fray, 
Dogged  and  dour  and  spent. 
Sudden  I  heard  my  Captain  say: 
"  Foila!     Kultur  has  passed  this  way, 
And  left  us  a  monument." 

So  I  looked  and  I  saw  our  Colonel  there, 
And  his  grand  head,  snowed  with  the  years, 
Unto  the  beat  of  the  rain  was  bare; 
And,  oh,  there  was  grief  in  his  frozen  stare, 
And  his  cheeks  were  stung  with  tears! 

Then  at  last  he  turned  from  the  woeful  tree, 
And  his  face  like  stone  was  set; 


174     THE  BLOOD-RED  FOURRAGERE 

"  Go,  march  the  Regiment  past,"  said  he, 
'  That  every  father  and  son  may  see, 
And  none  may  ever  forget." 

Oh,  the  crimson  strands  of  her  hair  downpoured 
Over  her  breasts  of  woe; 

And  our  grim  old  Colonel  leaned  on  his  sword, 
And  the  men  filed  past  with  their  rifles  lowered, 
Solemn  and  sad  and  slow. 

But  I'll  never  forget  till  the  day  I  die, 
As  I  stood  in  the  driving  rain, 
And  the  jaded  columns  of  men  slouched  by, 
How  amazement  leapt  into  every  eye, 
Then  fury  and  grief  and  pain. 

And  some  would  like  madmen  stand  aghast, 
With  their  hands  upclenched  to  the  sky; 
And  some  would  cross  themselves  as  they  passed, 
And  some  would  curse  in  a  scalding  blast, 
And  some  like  children  cry. 

Yea,  some  would  be  sobbing,  and  some  would  pray, 

And  some  hurl  hateful  names; 

But  the  best  had  never  a  word  to  say; 

They  turned  their  twitching  faces  away, 

And  their  eyes  were  like  hot  flames. 

They  passed;  then  down  on  his  bended  knee 

The  Colonel  dropped  to  the  Dead: 

"  Poor  martyred  daughter  of  France !  "  said  he, 


THE  BLOOD-RED  FOURRAGERE     175 

"  O  dearly,  dearly  avenged  you'll  be 
Or  ever  a  day  be  sped! 

Now  they  hold  that  we  are  the  best  of  the  best, 

And  each  of  our  men  may  wear, 

Like  a  gash  of  crimson  across  his  chest, 

As  one  fierce-proved  in  the  battle-test, 

The  blood-red  Fourragere. 

For  each  as  he  leaps  to  the  top  can  see, 

Like  an  etching  of  blood  on  his  brain, 

A  wife  or  a  mother  lashed  to  a  tree, 

With  two  black  holes  where  her  breasts  should  be, 

Left  to  rot  in  the  rain. 

So  we  fight  like  fiends,  and  of  us  they  say 

That  we  neither  yield  nor  spare. 

Oh,  we  have  the  bitterest  debt  to  pay.   .   .   . 

Have  we  paid  it?  —  Look  —  how  we  wear  to-day 

Like  a  trophy,  gallant  and  proud  and  gay, 

Our  blood-red  Fourragere. 

It  is  often  weary  waiting  at  the  little  paste  de  secours. 
Some  of  us  play  solitaire,  some  read  a  "  sixpenny,"  some 
doze  or  try  to  talk  in  bad  French  to  the  poilus.  Around 
us  is  discomfort,  dirt  and  drama. 

For  my  part,  I  pass  the  time  only  too  quickly,  trying  to 
put  into  verse  the  incidents  and  ideas  that  come  my  way. 
In  this  way  I  hope  to  collect  quite  a  lot  of  stuff  which  may 
some  day  see  itself  in  print. 

Here  is  one  of  my  efforts: 


176  JIM 


JIM 

Never  knew  Jim,  did  you?     Our  boy  Jim? 
Bless  you,  there  was  the  likely  lad; 
Supple  and  straight  and  long  of  limb, 
Clean  as  a  whistle,  and  just  as  glad. 
Always  laughing,  wasn't  he,  dad? 
Joy,  pure  joy  to  the  heart  of  him, 
And,  oh,  but  the  soothering  ways  he  had, 

Jim,  our  Jim! 

But  I  see  him  best  as  a  tiny  tot, 

A  bonny  babe,  though  it's  me  that  speaks; 

Laughing  there  in  his  little  cot, 

With  his  sunny  hair  and  his  apple  cheeks. 

And  my!  but  the  blue,  blue  eyes  he'd  got, 

And  just  where  his  wee  mouth  dimpled  dim 

Such  a  fairy  mark  like  a  beauty  spot  — 

That  was  Jim. 

Oh,  the  war,  the  war !     How  my  eyes  were  wet ! 
But  he  says :     "  Don't  be  sorrowing,  mother  dear ; 
You  never  knew  me  to  fail  you  yet, 
And  I'll  be  back  in  a  year,  a  year." 
'Twas  at  Mons  he  fell,  in  the  first  attack; 
For  so  they  said,  and  their  eyes  were  dim; 
But  I  laughed  in  their  faces:     "  He'll  come  back, 

Will  my  Jim." 

Now,  we'd  been  wedded  for  twenty  year, 
And  Jim  was  the  only  one  we'd  had; 


JIM  177 

So  when  I  whispered  in  father's  ear, 
He  wouldn't  believe  me  —  would  you,  dad? 
There!     I  must  hurry  .   .   .  hear  him  cry? 
My  new  little  baby.   ...  See !  that's  him. 
What  are  we  going  to  call  him?     Why, 

Jim,  just  Jim. 

Jim!     For  look  at  him  laughing  there 

In  the  same  old  way  in  his  tiny  cot, 

With  his  rosy  cheeks  and  his  sunny  hair, 

And  look,  just  look  .   .   .  his  beauty  spot 

In  the  selfsame  place.   .   .   .  Oh,  I  can't  explain, 

And  of  course  you  think  it's  a  mother's  whim, 

But  I  know,  I  know  it's  my  boy  again, 

Same  wee  Jim. 

Just  come  back  as  he  said  he  would; 
Come  with  his  love  and  his  heart  of  glee. 
Oh,  I  cried  and  I  cried,  but  the  Lord  was  good; 
From  the  shadow  of  Death  he  set  Jim  free. 
So  I'll  have  him  all  over  again,  you  see. 
Can  you  wonder  my  mother-heart's  a-brim? 
Oh,  how  happy  we're  going  to  be ! 

Aren't  we,  Jim? 

II 

IN   PlCARDY, 

January   1915. 

The  road  lies  amid  a  malevolent  heath.     It  seems  to  lead 
us  right  into  the  clutch  of  the  enemy;  for  the  star-shells, 


178  KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION 

that  at  first  were  bursting  overhead,  gradually  encircle  us. 
The  fields  are  strangely  sinister;  the  splintered  trees  are 
like  giant  toothpicks.  There  is  a  lisping  and  a  twanging 
overhead. 

As  we  wait  at  the  door  of  the  dugout  that  serves  as  a 
first-aid  dressing  station,  I  gaze  up  into  that  mysterious 
dark,  so  alive  with  musical  vibrations.  Then  a  small  shadow 
detaches  itself  from  the  greater  shadow,  and  a  gray-bearded 
sentry  says  to  me :  "  You'd  better  come  in  out  of  the  bul- 
lets." 

So  I  keep  under  cover,  and  presently  they  bring  my 
load.  Two  men  ,drip  with  sweat  as  they  carry  their  comrade. 
I  can  see  that  they  all  three  belong  to  the  Foreign  Legion. 
I  think  for  a  moment  of  Saxon  Dane.  How  strange  if 
some  day  I  should  carry  him!  Half  fearfully  I  look  at  my 
passenger,  but  he  is  a  black  man.  Such  things  only  happen 
in  fiction. 

This  is  what  I  have  written  of  the  finest  troops  in  the 
Army  of  France: 

KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION 

Now  Kelly  was  no  fighter; 

He  loved  his  pipe  and  glass; 

An  easygoing  blighter, 

Who  lived  in  Montparnasse. 

But  'mid  the  tavern  tattle 

He  heard  some  guinney  say: 

"  When  France  goes  forth  to  battle, 

The  Legion  leads  the  way. 

"  The  scourings  of  creation. 
Of  every  sin  and  station, 


KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION  179 

The  men  who've  known  damnation, 
Are  picked  to  lead  tine  way." 

Well,  Kelly  joined  the  Legion; 
They  marched  him  day  and  night; 
They  rushed  him  to  the  region 
Where  largest  loomed  the  fight. 
"  Behold  your  mighty  mission, 
Your  destiny,"  said  they; 
"  By  glorious  tradition 
The  Legion  leads  the  way. 

"  With  tattered  banners  flying 
With  trail  of  dead  and  dying, 
On!     On!     All  hell  defying, 
The  Legion  sweeps  the  way." 

With  grim,  hard-bitten  faces, 
With  jests  of  savage  mirth, 
They  swept  into  their  places, 
The  men  of  iron  worth; 
Their  blooded  steel  was  flashing; 
They  swung  to  face  the  fray; 
Then  rushing,  roaring,  crashing, 
The  Legion  cleared  the  way. 

The  trail  they  blazed  was  gory; 
Few  lived  to  tell  the  story; 
Through  death  they  plunged  to  glory; 
But,  oh,  they  cleared  the  way! 


i  So  KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION 

Now  Kelly  lay  a-dying, 
And  dimly  saw  advance, 
With  split  new  banners  flying, 
The  f  ant  as  sins  of  France. 
Then  up  amid  the  melee 
He  rose  from  where  he  lay; 
"  Come  on,  me  boys,"  says  Kelly, 
4  The  Layjun  lades  the  way !  " 

Aye,  while  they  faltered,  doubting 
(Such  flames  of  doom  were  spouting), 
He  caught  them,  thrilled  them,  shouting. 
'  The  Layjun  lades  the  way!  " 

They  saw  him  slip  and  stumble, 
Then  stagger  on  once  more ; 
They  marked  him  trip  and  tumble, 
A  mass  of  grime  and  gore; 
They  watched  him  blindly  crawling 
Amid  hell's  own  affray, 
And  calling,  calling,  calling: 
"  The  Layjun  lades  the  way!  " 

And  even  while  they  wondered, 
The  battle-wrack  was  sundered; 
To  Victory  they  thundered, 
But  .  .  .  Kelly  led  the  way. 

Still  Kelly  kept  agoing; 
Berserker-like  he  ran; 
His  eyes  with  fury  glowing, 


KELLY  OF  THE  LEGION  181 

A  lion  of  a  man; 
His  rifle  madly  swinging, 
His  soul  athirst  to  slay, 
His  slogan  ringing,  ringing, 
"  The  Layjun  lades  the  way !  " 

Till  in  a  pit  death-baited, 

Where  Huns  with  Maxims  waited f 

He  plunged  .   .   .  and  there,  blood-sated, 

To  death  he  stabbed  his  way. 

Now  Kelly  was  a  fellow 

Who  simply  loathed  a  fight : 

He  loved  a  tavern  mellow, 

Grog  hot  and  pipe  alight; 

I'm  sure  the  Show  appalled  him, 

And  yet  without  dismay, 

When  Death  and  Duty  called  him, 

He  up  and  led  the  way. 

So  in  Valhalla  drinking 
(If  heroes  meek  and  shrinking 
Are  suffered  there) ,  I'm  thinking 
'Tis  Kelly  leads  the  way. 

We  have  just  had  one  of  our  men  killed,  a  young  sculptor 
of  immense  promise. 

When  one  thinks  of  all  the  fine  work  he  might  have 
accomplished,  it  seems  a  shame.  But,  after  all,  to-morrow 
it  may  be  the  turn  of  any  of  us.  If  it  should  be  mine,  my 
chief  regret  will  be  for  work  undone. 

Ah!  I  often  think  of  how  I  will  go  back  to  the  Quarter 


182  THE  THREE  TOMMIES 

and  take  up  the  old  life  again.  How  sweet  it  will  all  seem. 
But  first  I  must  earn  the  right.  And  if  ever  I  do  go  back, 
how  I  will  find  Bohemia  changed!  Missing  how  many  a 
face! 

It  was  in  thinking  of  our  lost  comrade  I  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing : 


THE  THREE  TOMMIES 

That  Barret,  the  painter  of  pictures,  what  feeling  for 
color  he  had! 

And  Fanning,  the  maker  of  music,  such  melodies 
mirthful  and  mad ! 

And  Harley,  the  writer  of  stories,  so  whimsical,  ten- 
der and  glad ! 

To  hark  to  their  talk  in  the  trenches,  high  heart  un- 
folding to  heart, 

Of  the  day  when  the  war  would  be  over,  and  each 
would  be  true  to  his  part, 

Upbuilding  a  Palace  of  Beauty  to  the  wonder  and 
glory  of  Art  .  .  . 

Yon's  Barret,  the  painter  of  pictures,  yon  carcass 

that  rots  on  the  wire; 
His  hand  with  its  sensitive  cunning  is  crisped  to  a 

cinder  with  fire; 
His  eyes  with  their  magical  vision  are  bubbles  of 

glutinous  mire. 

Poor  Fanning!  He  sought  to  discover  the  sym- 
phonic note  of  a  shell; 


THE  THREE  TOMMIES  183 

There  are  bits  of  him  broken  and  bloody,  to  show 

you  the  place  where  he  fell; 
I've  reason  to  fear  on  his  exquisite  ear  the  rats  have 

been  banqueting  well. 

And  speaking  of  Harley,  the  writer,  I  fancy  I  looked 

on  him  last, 
Sprawling  and  staring  and  writhing  in  the  roar  of  the 

battle  blast; 
Then  a  mad  gun-team  crashed  over,  and  scattered 

his  brains  as  it  passed. 

Oh,   Harley   and   Fanning   and   Barret,    they  were 

bloody  good  mates  o'  mine; 
Their  bodies  are  empty  bottles;  Death  has  guzzled 

the  wine; 
What's   left   of   them's   filth   and   corruption.  .  .  . 

Where  is  the  Fire  Divine? 

I'll  tell  you.  ...  At  night  in  the  trenches,  as  I 
watch  and  I  do  my  part, 

Three  radiant  spirits  I'm  seeing,  high  heart  reveal- 
ing to  heart, 

And  they're  building  a  peerless  palace  to  the  splen- 
dor and  triumph  of  Art. 

Yet,  alas !  for  the  fame  of  Barret,  the  glory  he  might 
have  trailed! 

And  alas !  for  the  name  of  Fanning,  a  star  that  bea- 
coned and  paled, 

Poor  Harley,  obscure  and  forgotten.  .  .  .  Well, 
who  shall  say  that  they  failed ! 


1 84  THE  THREE  TOMMIES 

No,  each  did  a  Something  Grander  than  ever  he 

dreamed  to  do; 
And  as  for  the  work  unfinished,  all  will  be  paid  their 

due; 
The  broken  ends  will  be  fitted,  the  balance  struck 

will  be  true. 

So  painters,  and  players,  and  penmen,  I  tell  you : 

Do  as  you  please; 
Let  your  fame  outleap  on  the  trumpets,  you'll  never 

rise  up  to  these  — 
To  three  grim  and  gory  Tommies,  down,  down  on 

your  bended  knees ! 

Daventry,  the  sculptor,  is  buried  in  a  little  graveyard 
near  one  of  our  posts.  Just  now  our  section  of  the  line 
is  quiet,  so  I  often  go  and  sit  there.  Stretching  myself  on 
a  flat  stone,  I  dream  for  hours. 

Silence  and  solitude !  How  good  the  peace  of  it  all  seems ! 
Around  me  the  grasses  weave  a  pattern,  and  half  hide  the 
hundreds  of  little  wooden  crosses.  Here  is  one  with  a  single 
name: 

AUBREY. 

Who  was  Aubrey  I  wonder?     Then  another: 
To  Our  Beloved  Comrade. 

Then  one  which  has  attached  to  it,  in  the  cheapest  of 
little  frames,  the  crude  water-color  daub  of  a  child,  three 
purple  flowers  standing  in  a  yellow  vase.  Below  it,  pain- 
fully printed,  I  read: 


THE  TWA  JOCKS 

To  My  Darling  Papa  —  Thy  Little  Odette. 

And  beyond  the  crosses  many  fresh  graves  have  been 
dug.  With  hungry  open  mouths  they  wait.  Even  now  I 
can  hear  the  guns  that  are  going  to  feed  them.  Soon  there 
will  be  more  crosses,  and  more  and  more.  Then  they  will 
cease,  and  wives  and  mothers  will  come  here  to  weep. 

Ah!  Peace  so  precious  must  be  bought  with  blood  and 
tears.  Let  us  honor  and  bless  the  men  who  pay,  and  envy 
them  the  manner  of  their  dying;  for  not  all  the  jeweled 
orders  on  the  breasts  of  the  living  can  vie  in  glory  with  the 
little  wooden  cross  the  humblest  of  these  has  won.  .  .  . 

THE  TWA  JOCKS 

Says  Bauldy  MacGreegor  frae  Gleska  tae  Hecky 

MacCrimmon  frae  Skye: 
"  That's  whit  I  hate  maist  aboot  fechtin' —  it  makes 

ye  sae  deevilish  dry; 
Noo  jist  hae  a  keek  at  yon  ferm-hoose  them  Gair- 

mans  are  poundin'  sae  fine, 
Weel,  think  o'  it,  doon  in  the  dunnie  there's  bottles 

and  bottles  o'  wine. 
A'  hell's  fairly  belchin'  oot  yonner,  but  oh,  lad,  I'm 

ettlin'  tae  try.   .  .  ." 
"  //  it's  poose  she'll  be  with  ye  whatever"  says 

Hecky  MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 

Says  Bauldy  MacGreegor  frae  Gleska:   "  Whit  price 

fur  a  funeral  wreath? 
We're  dodgin'  a'  kinds  o'  destruction,  an'  jist  by  the 

skin  o'  oor  teeth. 


1 86  THE  TWA  JOCKS 

Here,  spread  yersel  oot  on  yer  belly,  and  slither 
along  in  the  glaur; 

Confoond  ye,  ye  big  Hielan'  deevil !  Ye  don't  real- 
ize there's  a  war. 

Ye  think  that  ye're  back  in  Dunvegan,  and  herdin' 
the  wee  bits  o'  kye." 

"  She'll  neffer  trink  wine  in  Dunfegan"  says  Hecky 
MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 

Says   Bauldy   MacGreegor   frae  Gleska :     "  Thank 

goodness!  the  ferm-hoose  at  last; 
There's  no  muckle  left  but  the  cellar,  an'  even  that's 

vanishin'  fast. 
Look  oot,   there's   the   corpse   o'   a   wumman,   sair 

mangelt  and  deid  by  her  lane. 
Quick!     Strike  a  match.   .   .   .  Whit  did  I  tell  ye! 

A  hale  bonny  box  o'  shampane; 
Jist  knock  the  heid  aff  o'  a  bottle.  .   .  .  Haud  on, 

mon,  I'm  hearing  a  cry.   .  .  ." 
"  She'll  think  it's  a  ivean  that  wass  greetin'  "  says 

Hecky  MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 

Says  Bauldy  MacGreegor  frae  Gleska :  "  Ma  con- 
science !  I'm  hanged  but  yer  richt. 

It's  yin  o'  thae  waifs  of  the  war-field,  a'  sobbin'  and 
shakin'  wi'  fricht. 

Wheesht  noo,  dear,  we're  no  gaun  tae  hurt  ye. 
We're  takin'  ye  hame,  my  wee  doo  ! 

We've  got  tae  get  back  wi'  her,  Hecky.  Whit 
mercy  we  didna  get  fou  ! 


THE  TWA  JOCKS  187 

We'll  no  touch  a  drap  o'  that  llkker  —  that's  hard, 

man,  ye  canna  deny.   .  .   ." 
"  It's  the  last  thing  she'll  think   o'  denyin',"  says 

Hecky  MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 

Says  Bauldy  MacGreegor  frae  Gleska:  "If  I 
should  get  struck  frae  the  rear, 

Ye'll  tak'  and  ye'll  shield  the  wee  lassie,  and  rin  for 
the  lines  like  a  deer. 

God  !  Wis  that  the  breenge  o'  a  bullet?  I'm  think- 
in'  it's  cracket  ma  spine. 

I'm  doon  on  ma  knees  in  the  glabber;  I'm  fearin', 
auld  man,  I've  got  mine. 

Here,  quick!  Pit  yer  erms  roon  the  lassie.  Noo, 
rin,  lad !  good  luck  and  good-by.  .  .  . 

"Hoots,  monf  it's  ye  baith  she'll  be  takin' ,"  says 
Hecky  MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 

Says  Corporal  Muckle  frae  Rannoch:    "  Is  that  no' 

a  picture  tae  frame? 
Twa  sair  woundit  Jocks  wi'  a  lassie  jist  like  ma  wee 

Jeannie  at  hame. 
We're  prood  o'  ye  baith,  ma  brave  heroes.     We'll 

gie  ye  a  medal,  I  think." 
Says  Bauldy  MacGreegor  frae  Gleska :  "  I'd  raither 

ye  gied  me  a  drink. 
I'll  no  speak  for  Private  MacCrimmon,  but  oh,  mon, 

I'm  perishin'  dry.   .  .  ." 
"  She'll  wush  that  Loch  Lefen  wass  whuskey,"  says 

Hecky  MacCrimmon  frae  Skye. 


i88  HIS  BOYS 

III 

NEAR  ALBERT, 

February  1915. 

Over  the  spine  of  the  ridge  a  horned  moon  of  reddish 
hue  peers  through  the  splintered,  hag-like  trees.  Where 
the  trenches  are,  rockets  are  rising,  green  and  red.  I  hear 
the  coughing  of  the  Maxims,  the  peevish  nagging  of  the 
rifles,  the  boom  of  a  "  heavy  "  and  the  hollow  sound  of  its 
exploding  shell. 

Running  the  car  into  the  shadow  of  a  ruined  house,  I 
try  to  sleep.  But  a  battery  starts  to  blaze  away  close  by, 
and  the  flame  lights  up  my  shelter.  Near  me  some  soldiers 
are  in  deep  slumber;  one  stirs  in  his  sleep  as  a  big  rat  runs 
over  him,  and  I  know  by  experience  that  when  one  is  sleep- 
ing a  rat  feels  as  heavy  as  a  sheep. 

But  how  can  one  possibly  sleep?  Out  there  in  the  dark 
there  is  the  wild  tattoo  of  a  thousand  rifles;  and  hark! 
that  dull  roar  is  the  explosion  of  a  mine.  There!  the  pur- 
ring of  the  rapid  firers.  Desperate  things  are  doing.  There 
will  be  lots  of  work  for  me  before  this  night  is  over.  What 
a  cursed  place! 

As  I  cannot  sleep,  I  think  of  a  story  I  heard  to-day.  It 
is  of  a  Canadian  Colonel,  and  in  my  mind  I  shape  it  like 
this: 

HIS  BOYS 

"I'm  going,  Billy,  old  fellow.     Hist,  lad!     Don't 

make  any  noise. 
There's  Boches  to  beat  all  creation,  the  pitch  of  a 

bomb  away. 


HIS  BOYS  189 

I've  fixed  the  note  to  your  collar,  you've  got  to  get 

back  to  my  Boys, 
You've  got  to  get  back  to  warn  'em  before  it's  the 

break  of  day." 

The   order  came   to   go   forward   to   a   trench-line 

traced  on  the  map ; 
I  knew  the  brass-hats  had  blundered,  I  knew  and  I 

told  'em  so; 
I  knew  if  I  did  as  they  ordered  I  would  tumble  into  a 

trap, 
And  I  tried  to  explain,  but  the  answer  came  like  a 

pistol:     "Go." 

Then  I  thought  of  the  Boys  I  commanded  —  I  al- 
ways called  them  "  my  Boys  " — 

The  men  of  my  own  recruiting,  the  lads  of  my  coun- 
tryside ; 

Tested  in  many  a  battle,  I  knew  their  sorrows  and 
joys, 

And  I  loved  them  all  like  a  father,  with  more  than  a 
father's  pride. 

To  march  my  Boys  to  a  shambles  as  soon  as  the 

dawn  of  day; 
To  see  them  helplessly  slaughtered,   if  all  that   I 

guessed  was  true; 
My  Boys  that  trusted  me  blindly,  I  thought  and  I 

tried  to  pray, 
And  then  I  arose  and  I  muttered :    "  It's  either  them 

or  it's  you." 


190  HIS  BOYS 

I  rose  and  I  donned  my  rain-coat;  I  buckled  my  hel- 
met tight. 

I  remember  you  watched  me,  Billy,  as  I  took  my 
cane  in  my  hand; 

I  vaulted  over  the  sandbags  into  the  pitchy  night, 

Into  the  pitted  valley  that  served  us  as  No  Man's 
Land. 

I  strode  out  over  the  hollow  of  hate  and  havoc  and 
death, 

From  the  heights  the  guns  were  angry,  with  a 
vengeful  snarling  of  steel; 

And  once  in  a  moment  of  stillness  I  heard  hard  pant- 
ing breath, 

And  I  turned  ...  it  was  you,  old  rascal,  following 
hard  on  my  heel. 

I  fancy  I  cursed  you,  Billy;  but  not  so  much  as  I 

ought ! 
And  so  we  went  forward  together,  till  we  came  to 

the  valley  rim, 
And  then   a   star-shell  sputtered  ...  it  was  even 

worse  than  I  thought, 
For  the  trench  they  told  me  to  move  in  was  packed 

with  Boche  to  the  brim. 

They  saw  me  too,  and  they  got  me;  they  peppered 

me  till  I  fell; 
And  there  I  scribbled  my  message  with  my  life-blood 

ebbing  away; 
"  Now,  Billy,  you  fat  old  duffer,  you've  got  to  get 

back  like  hell; 


HIS  BOYS  191 

And  get  them  to  cancel  that  order  before  it's  the 
dawn  of  day. 


''  Billy,  old  boy,  I  love  you,  I  kiss  your  shiny  black 

nose; 
Now,  home  there.   .   .   .  Hurry,  you  devil,  or  I'll  cut 

you  to  ribands.   .   .   .  See  .   .  ." 
Poor  brute!  he's  off!  and  I'm  dying.   ...  I  go  as  a 

soldier  goes. 
I'm  happy.      My  Boys,  God  bless  'em!   ...  It  had 

to  be  them  or  me. 


Ah!  I  never  was  intended  for  a  job  like  this.  I  realize 
it  more  and  more  every  day,  but  I  will  stick  it  out  till  I 
break  down.  To  be  nervous,  over-imaginative,  terribly 
sensitive  to  suffering,  is  a  poor  equipment  for  the  man  who 
starts  out  to  drive  wounded  on  the  battlefield.  I  am 
haunted  by  the  thought  that  my  car  may  break  down  when 
I  have  a  load  of  wounded.  Once  indeed  it  did,  and  a  man 
died  while  I  waited  for  help.  Now  I  never  look  at  what 
is  given  me.  It  might  unnerve  me. 

I  have  been  at  it  for  over  six  months  without  a  rest. 
When  an  attack  has  been  going  on  I  have  worked  day  and 
night,  until  as  I  drove  I  wanted  to  fall  asleep  at  the  wheel. 

The  winter  has  been  trying;  there  is  rain  one  day,  frost 
the  next.  Mud  up  to  the  axles.  One  sleeps  in  lousy  barns 
or  dripping  dugouts.  Cold,  hunger,  dirt,  I  know  them  all 
singly  and  together.  My  only  consolation  is  that  the  war 
must  soon  be  over,  and  that  I  will  have  helped.  When 
I  have  time  and  am  not  too  tired,  I  comfort  myself  with 
scribbling. 


192  THE  BOOBY-TRAP 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP 

I'm  crawlin'  out  in  the  mangolds  to  bury  wot's  left 
o'  Joe  — 

Joe,  my  pal,  and  a  good  un  (God!  'ow  it  rains  and 
rains) . 

I'm  sick  o'  seein'  him  lyin'  like  a  'eap  o'  offal,  and 
so 

I'm  crawlin'  out  in  the  beet-field  to  bury  'is  last  re- 
mains. 

'E  might'  a  bin  makin'  munitions  — 'e  'adn't  no  need 

to  go; 
An'  I  tells  'im  strite,  but  'e  arnsers,  "  'Tain't  no  use 

chewin'  the  fat; 
I've  got  to  be  doin'  me  dooty  wiv  the  rest  o'  the 

boys  "...  an'   so 
Yon's  'im,  yon  blob  on  the  beet-field  wot  I'm  tryin' 

so  'ard  to  git  at. 

There  was  five  of  us  lads  from  the  brickyard;  'Enry 

was  gassed  at  Bapome, 
Sydney  was  drowned  in  a  crater,  'Erbert  was  'alved 

by  a  shell; 
Joe  was  the  pick  o'  the  posy,  might  'a  bin  sifely  at 

'ome, 
Only  son  of  'is  mother,  'er  a  widder  as  well. 

She  used  to  sell  bobbins  and  buttons — 'ad  a  plice 
near  the  Waterloo  Road; 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  193 

A  little,  old,  bent-over  lydy,  wiv  glasses  an'  silvery 

'air; 
Must  tell  'er  I  planted  'im  nicely,  cheer  'er  up  like. 

.  .  .    (Well,  I'm  blowed, 
That  bullet  near  catched  me  a  biffer)  —  I'll  see  the 

old  gel  if  I'm  spared. 

She'll  tike  it  to  'eart,  pore  ol'  lydy,  fer  'e  was  'cr 

'ope  and  'er  joy; 
'Is  dad  used  to  drink  like  a  knot-'ole,  she  kept  the 

'ome  goin',  she  did: 
She  pinched  and  she  scriped  fer  'is  scoolin',  'e  was 

sich  a  fine  'andsome  boy 
('Alf  Flanders  seems  packed  on  me  panties)  — Vs 

'andsome  no  longer,  pore  kid ! 

This  bit  o'  a  board  that  I'm  packin'  and  draggin' 

around  in  the  mire, 
I  was  tickled  to  death  when  I  found  it.     Says  I, 

"  'Ere's  a  nice  little  glow." 
I  was  chilled  and  wet  through  to  the  marrer,  so  I 

started  to  make  me  a  fire ; 
And  then  I  says :    "No;  'ere,  Goblimy,  it'll  do  for  a 

cross  for  Joe." 

Well,  'ere  'e  is.     Gawd!     'Ow  one  chinges  a-lyin' 

six  weeks  in  the  rain. 
Joe,  me  old  pal,  'ow  I'm  sorry;  so  'elp  me,  I  wish  I 

could  pray. 
An'  now  I  'ad  best  get  a-diggin'  'is  grave  (it  seems 

more  like  a  drain)  — 


i94  BONEHEAD  BILL 

And  I  'opes  that  the  Bodies  won't  git  me  till  I  gits 
'im  safe  planted  away. 

(As  he  touches  the  body  there  is  a  tremen- 
dous explosion.     He  falls  back  shattered.) 

A  booby-trap!     Ought  to  'a  known  it!     If  that's 

not  a  bastardly  trick! 
Well,  one  thing,   I  won't  be  long  goin'.     Gawd! 

I'm  a  'ell  of  a  sight. 
Wish  I'd  died  fightin'  and  killin';  that's  wot  it  is 

makes  me  sick.  .  .  . 
Ah,  Joe !  we'll  be  pushin'  up  dysies  .   .   .  together, 

old  Chummie  .   .  .  good-night ! 

To-day  I  heard  that  MacBean  had  been  killed  in  Belgium. 
I  believe  he  turned  out  a  wonderful  soldier.  Saxon  Dane, 
too,  has  been  missing  for  two  months.  We  know  what  that 
means. 

It  is  odd  how  one  gets  callous  to  death,  a  mediaeval 
callousness.  When  we  hear  that  the  best  of  our  friends 
have  gone  West,  we  have  a  moment  of  the  keenest  regret; 
but  how  soon  again  we  find  the  heart  to  laugh!  The  sad- 
dest part  of  loss,  I  think,  is  that  one  so  soon  gets  over  it. 

Is  it  that  we  fail  to  realize  it  all?  Is  it  that  it  seems  a 
strange  and  hideous  dream,  from  which  we  will  awake 
and  rub  our  eyes? 

Oh,  how  bitter  I  feel  as  the  days  go  by!  It  is  creeping 
more  and  more  into  my  verse.  Read  this: 

BONEHEAD  BILL 

I  wonder  'oo  and  wot  'e  was, 
That  'Un  I  got  so  slick. 


BONEHEAD  BILL  195 

i  couldn't  see  'is  face  because 

The  night  was  'ideous  thick. 

I  just  made  out  among  the  black 

A  blinkin'  wedge  o'  white ; 

Then  biff!     I  guess  I  got  'im  crack  — 

The  man  I  killed  last  night. 

I  wonder  if  account  o'  me 
Some  wench  will  go  unwed, 
And  'caps  o'  lives  will  never  be, 
Because:  Vs  stark  and  dead? 
Or  if  'is  missis  damns  the  war, 
And  by  some  candle  light, 
Tow-headed  kids  are  prayin'  for 
The  Fritz  I  copped  last  night. 

I  wonder,  'struth,  I  wonder  why 

I  'ad  that  'orful  dream? 

I  saw  up  in  the  giddy  sky 

The  gates  o'  God  agleam; 

I  saw  the  gates  o'  'eaven  shine 

Wiv  everlastin'  light: 

And  then  ...  I  knew  that  I'd  got  mine, 

As  'e  got  'is  last  night. 

Aye,  bang  beyond  the  broodin'  mists 
Where  spawn  the  mother  stars, 
I  'ammered  wiv  me  bloody  fists 
Upon  them  golden  bars; 
I  'ammered  till  a  devil's  doubt 
Fair  froze  me  wiv  affright: 


196  BONEHEAD  BILL 

To  fink  wot  God  would  say  about 
The  bloke  I  corpsed  last  night. 

I  'ushed;  I  wilted  wiv  despair, 

When,  like  a  rosy  flame, 

I  sees  a  angel  standin'  there 

'Oo  calls  me  by  me  name. 

'E  'ad  such  soft,  such  shiny  eyes; 

'E  'eld  'is  'and  and  smiled; 

And  through  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

'E  led  me  like  a  child. 

'E  led  me  by  them  golden  palms 

Wot  'ems  that  jeweled  street; 

And  seraphs  was  a-singin'  psalms, 

You've  no  ideer  'ow  sweet; 

Wiv  cheroobs  crowdin'  closer  round 

Than  peas  is  in  a  pod, 

'E  led  me  to  a  shiny  mound 

Where  beams  the  throne  o'  God. 

And  then  I  'ears  God's  werry  voice: 
"  Bill  'agan,  'ave  no  fear. 
Stand  up  and  glory  and  rejoice 
For  'im  'oo  led  you  'ere." 
And  in  a  nip  I  seemed  to  see: 
Aye,  like  a  flash  o'  light, 
My  angel  pal  I  knew  to  be 
The  chap  I  plugged  last  night. 

Now,  I  don't  claim  to  understand  — 
They  calls  me  Bonehead  Bill; 


A  LAPSE  OF  TIME  197 

They  shoves  a  rifle  in  me  'and, 
And  show  me  'ow  to  kill. 
Me  job's  to  risk  me  life  and  limb, 
But  ...  be  it  wrong  or  right, 
This  cross  I'm  makin',  it's  for  'im, 
The  cove  I  croaked  last  night. 


IV 

A  LAPSE  OF  TIME  AND  A  WORD  OF 
EXPLANATION 

THE  AMERICAN  HOSPITAL,  NEUILLY, 

January  1919. 

Four  years  have  passed  and  it  is  winter  again.  Much 
has  happened.  When  I  last  wrote,  on  the  Somme  in  1915, 
I  was  sickening  with  typhoid  fever.  All  that  spring  I  was 
in  hospital. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  take  part 
In  the  Champagne  battle  in  the  fall  of  that  year,  and  to 
"  carry  on  "  during  the  following  winter.  It  was  at  Verdun 
1  got  my  first  wound. 

In  the  spring  of  1917  I  again  served  with  my  Corps;  but 
on  the  entry  of  the  United  States  into  the  War  I  joined 
the  army  of  my  country.  In  the  Argonne  I  had  my  left 
arm  shot  away. 

As  far  as  time  and  health  permitted,  I  kept  a  record  of 
these  years,  and  also  wrote  much  verse.  All  this,  however, 
has  disappeared  under  circumstances  into  which  there  is  no 
need  to  enter  here.  The  loss  was  a  cruel  one,  almost  more 
so  than  that  of  my  arm ;  for  I  have  neither  the  heart  nor  the 
power  to  rewrite  this  material. 


>I98  MICHAEL 

And  now,  in  default  of  something  better,  I  have  bundled 
together  this  manuscript,  and  have  added  to  it  a  few  more 
verses,  written  in  hospitals.  Let  it  represent  me.  If  I  can 
find  a  publisher  for  it,  tant  mieux.  If  not,  I  will  print  it 
at  my  own  cost,  and  any  one  who  cares  for  a  copy  can 
write  to  me  — 

STEPHEN  POORE, 

12  bis,  RUE  DES  PETITS  MOINEAUX, 

PARIS. 

MICHAEL 

"  There's  something  in  your  face,  Michael,  I've  seen 

it  all  the  day; 
There's  something  quare  that  wasn't  there  when  first 

ye  wint  away.  ..." 

"  It's  just  the  Army  life,  mother,  the  drill,  the'  left 

and  right, 
That  puts  the  stiffinin'  in  yer  spine  and  locks  yer  jaw 

up  tight.  .  .  ." 

"  There's  something  in  your  eyes,  Michael,  an'  how 

they  stare  and  stare  — 
You're  lookin'  at  me  now,  me  boy,  as  if  I  wasn't 

there.  .  .  ." 

"  It's-  just  the  things  I've  seen,  mother,  the  sights 

that  come  and  come, 
A  bit  o'  broken,  bloody  pulp  that  used  to  be  a 

chum. 


MICHAEL  199 

'  There's  something  on  your  heart,  Michael,  that 

makes  ye  wake  at  night, 

And  often  when  I  hear  ye  moan,  I  trimble  in  me 
fright.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  just  a  man  I  killed,  mother,  a  mother's  son  like 

me; 
It  seems  he's  always  hauntin'  me,  he'll  never  let  me 

be.  .  .  ." 

"  But  maybe  he  was  bad,  Michael,  maybe  it  was 

right 
To   kill   the   inimy  you   hate   in   fair   and   honest 

fight.  .  .  ." 

"  I  did  not  hate  at  all,  mother;  he  never  did  me 

harm; 
I  think  he  was  a  lad  like  me,  who  worked  upon  a 

farm.  .  .  ." 

"And  what's  it  all  about,  Michael;  why  did  you  have 

to  go, 
A  quiet,  peaceful  lad  like  you,  and  we  were  happy 

so?  .  .  ." 

"  It's  thim  that's  up  above,  mother,  it's  thim  that  sits 

an*  rules; 
We've  got  to  fight  the  wars  they  make,  it's  us  as  are 

the  fools.  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  will  be  the  end,  Michael,  and  what's  the 
use,  I  say, 


200  THE  WIFE 

Of  fightin'  if  whoever  wins  it's  us  that's  got  to 
pay?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  the  end,  mother,  when  lads  like  him 

and  me, 
That  sweat  to  feed  the  ones  above,  decide  that  we'll 

be  free.  .  .  ." 

"  And  when  will  that  day  come,  Michael,  and  when 

will  fightin'  cease, 
And  simple  folks  may  till  their  soil  and  live  and  love 

in  peace?  .  .  ." 

"  It's  coming  soon  and  soon,  mother,  it's  nearer 
every  day, 

When  only  men  who  work  and  sweat  will  have  a 
word  to  say; 

When  all  who  earn  their  honest  bread  in  every  land 
and  soil 

Will  claim  the  Brotherhood  of  Man,  the  Comrade- 
ship of  Toil ; 

When  we,  the  Workers,  all  demand :  '  What  are  we 
fighting  for?  '  .  .  . 

Then,  then  we'll  end  that  stupid  crime,  that  devil's 
madness  —  War." 


THE  WIFE 

"  Tell  Annie  I'll  be  home  in  time 
To  help  her  with  her  Christmas-tree.' 


THE  WIFE  201 

That's  what  he  wrote,  and  hark !  the  chime 
Of  Christmas  bells,  and  where  is  he? 
And  how  the  house  is  dark  and  sad, 
And  Annie's  sobbing  on  my  knee ! 

The  page  beside  the  candle-flame 
With  cruel  type  was  overfilled; 
I  read  and  read  until  a  name 
Leapt  at  me  and  my  heart  was  stilled: 
My  eye  crept  up  the  column  —  up 
Unto  its  hateful  heading:  Killed. 

And  there  was  Annie  on  the  stair: 
"  And  will  he  not  be  long?  "  she  said. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  and  in  her  hair 
She'd  twined  a  bit  of  riband  red; 
And  every  step  was  daddy's  sure, 
Till  tired  out  she  went  to  bed. 

And  there  alone  I  sat  so  still, 
With  staring  eyes  that  did  not  see; 
The  room  was  desolate  and  chill, 
And  desolate  the  heart  of  me; 
Outside  I  heard  the  news-boys  shrill: 
"  Another  Glorious  Victory!  " 

A  victory.  .  .  .  Ah!  what  care  I? 
A  thousand  victories  are  vain. 
Here  in  my  ruined  home  I  cry 
From  out  my  black  despair  and  pain, 
I'd  rather,  rather  damned  defeat, 
And  have  my  man  with  me  again. 


202  THE  WIFE 

They  talk  to  us  of  pride  and  power, 
Of  Empire  vast  beyond  the  sea ; 
As  here  beside  my  hearth  I  cower, 
What  mean  such  words  as  these  to  me  ? 
Oh,  will  they  lift  the  clouds  that  low'r, 
Or  light  my  load  in  years  to  be  ? 

What  matters  it  to  us  poor  folk? 
Who  win  or  lose,  it's  we  who  pay. 
Oh,  I  would  laugh  beneath  the  yoke 
If  I  had  him  at  home  to-day; 
One's  home  before  one's  country  comes : 
Aye,  so  a  million  women  say. 

"  Hush,  Annie  dear,  don't  sorrow  so." 
(How  can  I  tell  her?)      "  See,  we'll  light 
With  tiny  star  of  purest  glow 
Each  little  candle  pink  and  white." 
(They  make  mistakes.     I'll  tell  myself 
I  did  not  read  that  name  aright.) 
Come,  dearest  one;  come,  let  us  pray 
Beside  our  gleaming  Christmas-tree ; 
Just  fold  your  little  hands  and  say 
These  words  so  softly  after  me : 
"  God  pity  mothers  in  distress, 
And  little  children  fatherless." 

"  God  pity  mothers  in  distress, 
And  little  children  fatherless" 


VICTORY  STUFF  203 

What's  that?  —  a  step  upon  the  stair; 

A  shout !  —  the  door  thrown  open  wide ! 

My  hero  and  my  man  is  there, 

And  Annie's  leaping  by  his  side.  . 

The  room  reels  round,  I  faint,  I  fall.  .  .  . 

"  O  God !     Thy  world  is  glorified." 

VICTORY  STUFF 

What  d'ye  think,  lad ;  what  d'ye  think, 

As  the  roaring  crowds  go  by? 

As  the  banners  flare  and  the  brasses  blare 

And  the  great  guns  rend  the  sky? 

As  the  women  laugh  like  they'd  all  gone  mad, 

And  the  champagne  glasses  clink : 

Oh,  you're  grippin'  me  hand  so  tightly,  lad, 

I'm  a-wonderin' :  what  d'ye  think? 

D'ye  think  o'  the  boys  we  used  to  know, 

And  how  they'd  have  topped  the  fun  ? 

Tom  and  Charlie,  and  Jack  and  Joe  — 

Gone  now,  every  one. 

How  they'd  have  cheered  as  the  joy-bells  chime, 

And  they  grabbed  each  girl  for  a  kiss ! 

And  now  —  they're  rottin'  in  Flanders  slime, 

And  they  gave  their  lives  —  for  this. 

Or  else  d'ye  think  of  the  many  a  time 
We  wished  we  too  was  dead, 
Up  to  our  knees  in  the  freezin'  grime, 
With  the  fires  of  hell  overhead; 


-T  TO 


Wrier.  the  Truth  i-i  the  >:re-^h  cf  -?  sipped  2^27. 
And  we  caned  m  our  rage  and  pain? 
And  yet  —  we  haven't  a  word  to  say.  .  .  . 

V.Vd  da  it  222!-. 


I'm  scared  that  they  pity  us.     Come,  old  boy, 
Let's  leave  them  their  fags  and  their  fuss. 
We'd  sorely  be  hatin'  to  spoil  their  joy 
With  -'-.?  ii^ht  ::"  s-::i  —  rriks  2s  _i. 
Le:'5  =".:;  2-27  pBCtly,  fM  2-d  -r. 
And  well  talk  of  our  chams  oat  there  : 
rim*  w?/A  jour  eyes  that'll  never  see, 
Me  tkmfs  wheeled  m  a  chair. 

WAS  IT  YOU? 

"  Hoflo,  yonng  Jones  !  with  your  tie  so  gay 

And  your  pen  behind  your  car; 

Will  yon  mark  my  cheque  in  the  usual  way? 

For  I  m  overdrawn,  I  fear. 

Then  yon  look  at  me  in  a  manner  bland, 

As  7ou  turr.  7our  ledger's  leaves. 

And  yon  hand  it  back  with  a  soft  white  hand* 

And  the  air  of  a  man  who  grieves.  .  .  . 

"  Was  It  you,  young  Jones,  VMS  It  you  I  saw 

(And  I  think  I  see  you  yet) 

With  a  free  bomb  gripped  in  your  grimy  paw 

And  your  face  to  the  parapet? 

With  your  lips  asnarl  and  your  eyes  gone  mad 

With  a  fury  that  thrilled  you  through.  .  .  . 


WAS  IT  YOU?  105 

Oh,  I  look  at  you  mom  and  I  think,  my  lad, 
it  you,  young  Jones,  teas  it  yonf 


"  Hullo,  young  Smith,  with  your  well-fed  look 

And  your  coat  of  dapper  fit, 

Will  you  recommend  me  a  decent  book 

With  nothing  of  War  in  it?" 

Then  you  smile  as  you  polish  a  finger-nail, 

And  your  eyes  serenely  roam, 

And  you  suavely  hand  me  a  thriffing  tale 

By  a  man  who  stayed  at  home. 

"  Wms  it  jam,  young  Smith,  wms  it  yam  I  smw 

In  the  kettle's  storm  end  stench, 

With  m  romr  of  rage  mud  m  wound  red-rmw 

Lemp  into  the  reeking  trench? 

As  you  stood  fike  m  feud  on  the  fri*$-$helf 

And  you  stmhhed  mud  hmched  mud  slew.  .  .  . 

Oh,  1  look  ft  you  mud  I  msh  myself, 

Wms  it  you,  young  Smith,  wms  it  you? 

"HoDo,  old  Brown,  with  your  roddy  cheek 

AT.  I  "    ~  -~  ~  -~~.~.~     ?   7I"-I~.  lil   >••-—- 

Tour  garden's  looking  jolly  due 

And  your  kid<fies  awfly  wdL 

Then  tyou  beam  at  me  in  your  cheery  way 

As  yon  swing  your  water-can; 

\T.i  y:_  TT.:T  v  :  .  r  "::;--  i-.i  ;•  :  _  ':'..-.-.:'.>   517 
*  What  aboot  golf  ,  old  man?  * 


"  Wms  it  you,  old  Broom,  mms  it  you  I 
Like  m  bulLdog  stick  to  your  gum, 


206  LES  GRINDS  MUTILES 

A  cursing  devil  of  fang  and  claw 

When  the  rest  were  on  the  run? 

Your  eyes  aflame  with  the  battle-hate.  .  .  . 

As  you  sit  in  the  family  pew, 

And  I  see  you  rising  to  pass  the  plate, 

I  ask:   Old  Brown,  was  it  you? 

"  Was  it  me  and  you  ?     Was  it  you  and  me  ? 
f(Is  that  grammar,  or  is  it  not?) 
Who  groveled  in  filth  and  misery, 
Who  gloried  and  groused  and  fought? 
Which  is  the  wrong  and  which  is  the  right? 
Which  is  the  false  and  the  true? 
The  man  of  peace  or  the  man  of  fight? 
Which  is  the  ME  and  the  YOU?  " 


V 
LES  GRANDS  MUTILES 

I  saw  three  wounded  of  the  war: 

And  the  first  had  lost  his  eyes; 

And  the  second  went  on  wheels  and  had 

No  legs  below  the  thighs; 

And  the  face  of  the  third  was  featureless. 

And  his  mouth  ran  cornerwise. 

So  I  made  a  rhyme  about  each  one, 

And  this  is  how  my  fancies  run. 


LES  GRINDS  MUTILES  207 


THE  SIGHTLESS  MAN 

Out  of  the  night  a  crash, 
A  roar,  a  rampart  of  light; 
A  flame  that  leaped  like  a  lash, 
Searing  forever  my  sight; 
Out  of  the  night  a  flash, 
Then,  oh,  forever  the  Night ! 

Here  in  the  dark  I  sit, 

I  who  so  loved  the  sun ; 

Supple  and  strong  and  fit, 

In  the  dark  till  my  days  be  done; 

Aye,  that's  the  hell  of  it, 

Stalwart  and  twenty-one. 

Marie  is  stanch  and  true, 

Willing  to  be  my  wife ; 

Swears  she  has  eyes  for  two  .  .  . 

Aye,  but  it's  long,  is  Life. 

What  is  a  lad  to  do 

With  his  heart  and  his  brain  at  strife? 

There  now,  my  pipe  is  out; 
No  one  to  give  me  a  light; 
I  grope  and  I  grope  about. 
Well,  it  is  nearly  night; 
Sleep  may  resolve  my  doubt, 
Help  me  to  reason  right.  .  .  . 


208  LES  GRINDS  MUTILES 

(He  sleeps  and  dreams.) 

I  heard  them  whispering  there  by  the  bed  .  . 

Oh,  but  the  ears  of  the  blind  are  quick! 

Every  treacherous  word  they  said 

Was  a  stab  of  pain  and  my  heart  turned  sick. 

Then  lip  met  lip  and  they  looked  at  me, 

Sitting  bent  by  the  fallen  fire, 

And  they  laughed  to  think  that  I  couldn't  see ; 

But  I  felt  the  flame  of  their  hot  desire. 

He's  helping  Marie  to  work  the  farm, 

A  dashing,  upstanding  chap,  they  say; 

And  look  at  me  with  my  flabby  arm, 

And  the  fat  of  sloth,  and  my  face  of  clay  — 

Look  at  me  as  I  sit  and  sit, 

By  the  side  of  a  fire  that's  seldom  lit, 

Sagging  and  weary  the  livelong  day, 

When  every  one  else  is  out  on  the  field, 

Sowing  the  seed  for  a  golden  yield, 

Or  tossing  around  the  new-mown  hay.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  shimmering  wheat  that  frets  the  sky, 

Gold  of  plenty  and  blue  of  hope, 

I'm  seeing  it  all  with  an  inner  eye 

As  out  of  the  door  I  grope  and  grope. 

And  I  hear  my  wife  and  her  lover  there, 

Whispering,  whispering,  round  the  rick, 

Mocking  me  and  my  sightless  stare, 

As  I  fumble  and  stumble  everywhere, 

Slapping  and  tapping  with  my  stick; 

Old  and  weary  at  thirty-one, 


LES  GRANDS  MUTILES  209 

Heartsick,  wishing  it  all  was  done. 

Oh,  I'll  tap  my  way  around  to  the  byre, 

And  I'll  hear  the  cows  as  they  chew  their  hay; 

There  at  least  there  is  none  to  tire, 

There  at  least  I  am  not  in  the  way. 

And  they'll  look  at  me  with  their  velvet  eyes 

And  I'll  stroke  their  flanks  with  my  woman's  hand, 

And  they'll  answer  to  me  with  soft  replies, 

And  somehow  I  fancy  they'll  understand. 

And  the  horses  too,  they  know  me  well ; 

I'm  sure  that  they  pity  my  wretched  lot, 

And,  the  big  fat  ram  with  the  jingling  bell  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  beasts  are  the  only  friends  I've  got. 

And  my  old  dog,  too,  he  loves  me  more, 

I  think,  than  ever  he  did  before. 

Thank  God  for  the  beasts  that  are  all  so  kind, 

That  know  and  pity  the  helpless  blind ! 

Ha !  they're  coming,  the  loving  pair. 

My  hand's  a-shake  as  my  pipe  I  fill. 

What  if  I  steal  on  them  unaware 

With  a  reaping-hook,  to  kill,  to  kill?  .  .   . 

I'll  do  it  ...  they're  there  in  the  mow  of  hay, 

I  hear  them  saying:    "  He's  out  of  the  way!  " 

Hark!  how  they're  kissing  and  whispering.  .   .  . 

Closer  I  creep  ...  I  crouch  ...  I  spring.   .  .  . 

(He  wakes.) 

Ugh !     What  a  horrible  dream  I've  had ! 
And  it  isn't  real  .  .  .  I'm  glad,  I'm  glad  I 
Marie  is  good  and  Marie  is  true  .  .  . 


210         LES'GRANDS  MUTILES 

But  now  I  know  what  it's  best  to  do. 

I'll  sell  the  farm  and  I'll  seek  my  kind, 

I'll  live  apart  with  my  fellow-blind, 

And  we'll  eat  and  drink,  and  we'll  laugh  and  joke, 

And  we'll  talk  of  our  battles,  and  smoke  and  smoke ; 

And  brushes  of  bristle  we'll  make  for  sale, 

While  one  of  us  reads  a  book  of  Braille. 

And  there  will  be  music  and  dancing  too, 

And  we'll  seek  to  fashion  our  life  anew; 

And  we'll  walk  the  highways  hand  in  hand, 

The  Brotherhood  of  the  Sightless  Band; 

Till  the  years  at  last  shall  bring  respite 

And  our  night  is  lost  in  the  Greater  Night. 


THE  LEGLESS  MAN 
( The  Dark  Side) 

My  mind  goes  back  to  Fumin  Wood,  and  how  we 
stuck  it  out, 

Eight  days  of  hunger,  thirst  and  cold,  mowed  down 
by  steel  and  flame; 

Waist-deep  in  mud  and  mad  with  woe,  with  dead 
men  all  about, 

We  fought  like  fiends  and  waited  for  relief  that 
never  came. 

Eight  days  and  nights  they  rolled  on  us  in  battle- 
frenzied  mass! 

"  Debout  les  morts!"  We  hurled  them  back.  By 
God!  they  did  not  pass. 


LES  GRANDS  MU TILES  211 

They  pinned  two  medals  on  my  chest,  a  yellow  and 

a  brown, 
And  lovely  ladies  made  me  blush,  such  pretty  words 

they  said. 
I  felt  a  cheerful  man,  almost,  until  my  eyes  went 

down, 
And  there  I  saw  the  blankets  —  how  they  sagged 

upon  my  bed. 
And  then  again  I  drank  the  cup  of  sorrow  to  the 

dregs : 
Oh,  they  can  keep  their  medals  if  they  give  me  back 

my  legs. 

I  think  of  how  I  used  to  run  and  leap  and  kick  the 

ball, 
And  ride  and  dance  and  climb  the  hills  and  frolic 

in  the  sea; 
And  all  the  thousand  things  that  now  I'll  never  do 

at  all.   .   .   . 
Mon  Dieu!  there's   nothing  left   in   life,   it   often 

seems  to  me. 
And  as  the  nurses  lift  me  up  and  strap  me  in  my 

chair, 
If  they  would  chloroform  me  off  I  feel  I  wouldn't 

care. 

Ah  yes!  we're  "  heroes  all  "  to-day  —  they  point  to 

us  with  pride; 
To-day  their  hearts  go  out  to  us,  the  tears  are  in 

their  eyes ! 
But  wait  a  bit;  to-morrow  they  will  blindly  look 

aside; 


212  LES  GRANDS  MUTILES 

No  more  they'll  talk  of  what  they  owe,  the  dues  of 

sacrifice 

(One  hates  to  be  reminded  of  an  everlasting  debt). 
It's  all  in  human  nature.     Ah !  the  world  will  soon 

forget. 

My  mind  goes  back  to  where  I  lay  wound-rotted  on 

the  plain, 
And  ate  the  muddy  mangold  roots,  and  drank  the 

drops  of  dew, 
And  dragged  myself  for  miles  and  miles  when  every 

move  was  pain, 
And  over  me  the  carrion-crows  were  retching  as  they 

flew. 
Oh,  ere  I  closed  my  eyes  and  stuck  my  rifle  in  the 

air 
I  wish  that  those  who  picked  me  up  had  passed  and 

left  me  there. 

(The  Bright  Side) 

Oh,  one  gets  used  to  everything! 

I  hum  a  merry  song, 

And  up  the  street  and  round  the  square 

I  wheel  my  chair  along; 

For  look  you,  how  my  chest  is  sound 

And  how  my  arms  are  strong! 

Oh,  one  gets  used  to  anything! 

It's  awkward  at  the  first, 

And  jolting  o'er  the  cobbles  gives 


LES  GRINDS  MUTILES  213 

A  man  a  grievous  thirst; 

But  of  all  ills  that  one  must  bear 

That's  surely  not  the  worst. 

For  there's  the  cafe  open  wide, 
And  there  they  set  me  up; 
And  there  I  smoke  my  caporal 
Above  my  cider  cup; 
And  play  manille  a  while  before 
I  hurry  home  to  sup. 

At  home  the  wife  is  waiting  me 
With  smiles  and  pigeon-pie; 
And  little  Zi-Zi  claps  her  hands 
With  laughter  loud  and  high; 
And  if  there's  cause  to  growl,  I  fail 
To  see  the  reason  why. 

And  all  the  evening  by  the  lamp 
I  read  some  tale  of  crime, 
Or  play  my  old  accordion 
With  Marie  keeping  time, 
Until  we  hear  the  hour  of  ten 
From  out  the  steeple  chime. 

Then  in  the  morning  bright  and  soon, 

No  moment  do  I  lose; 

Within  my  little  cobbler's  shop 

To  gain  the  silver  sous 

(Good  luck  one  has  no  need  of  legs 

To  make  a  pair  of  shoes). 


2i4  LES  GRANDS  MU TILES 

And  every  Sunday  —  oh,  it's  then 
I  am  the  happy  man; 
They  wheel  me  to  the  river-side, 
And  there  with  rod  and  can 
I  sit  and  fish  and  catch  a  dish 
Of  goujons  for  the  pan. 

Aye,  one  gets  used  to  everything, 
And  doesn't  seem  to  mind; 
Maybe  I'm  happier  than  most 
Of  my  two-legged  kind; 
For  look  you  at  the  darkest  cloud, 
Lo!  how  it's  silver-lined. 


THE  FACELESS  MAN 

I'm  dead. 

Officially  I'm  dead.     Their  hope  is  past. 

How  long  I  stood  as  missing!     Now,  at  last 

I'm  dead. 

Look  in  my  face  —  no  likeness  can  you  see, 
No  tiny  trace  of  him  they  knew  as  "  me." 
How  terrible  the  change ! 
Even  my  eyes  are  strange. 
So  keyed  are  they  to  pain, 
That  if  I  chanced  to  meet 
My  mother  in  the  street 
She'd  look  at  me  in  vain. 

When  she  got  home  I  think  she'd  say: 
"  I  saw  the  saddest  sight  to-day  — 


LES  GRINDS  MUTILES  215 

A  poilu  with  no  face  at  all. 
Far  better  in  the  fight  to  fall 
Than  go  through  life  like  that,  I  think. 
Poor  fellow!  how  he  made  me  shrink. 
No  face.     Just  eyes  that  seemed  to  stare 
At  me  with  anguish  and  despair. 
This  ghastly  war !     I'm  almost  cheered 
To  think  my  son  who  disappeared, 
My  boy  so  handsome  and  so  gay, 
Might  have  come  home  like  him  to-day." 

I'm  dead.     I  think  it's  better  to  be  dead 

When  little  children  look  at  you  with  dread; 

And  when  you  know  your  coming  home  again 

Will  only  give  the  ones  who  love  you  pain. 

Ah!  who  can  help  but  shrink?     One  cannot  blame. 

They  see  the  hideous  husk,  not,  not  the  flame 

Of  sacrifice  and  love  that  burns  within; 

While  souls  of  satyrs,  riddled  through  with  sin, 

Have  bodies  fair  and  excellent  to  see. 

Mon  Dieuf  how  different  we  all  would  be 

If  this  our  flesh  was  ordained  to  express 

Our  spirit's  beauty  or  its  ugliness. 

(Oh,  you  who  look  at  me  with  fear  to-day, 
And  shrink  despite  yourselves,  and  turn  away  — 
It  was  for  you  I  suffered  woe  accurst; 
For  you  I  braved  red  battle  at  its  worst; 
For  you  I  fought  and  bled  and  maimed  and  slew; 

For  you,  for  you ! 
For  you  I  faced  hell-fury  and  despair; 


_  :  I  LES  GRANDS  MUTILES 

The  reeking  horror  of  it  all  I  knew: 

~  _  _~~_  i."   ~.     ?  -          ~.  ~  ~.    ~-~,  .    I '_  T7".  .1 1  i    ~  7-  -  T  t  ! 

.    ;n~x  ...::   "r   irti":  "r   ir "-. .:  ~~t~  — 
Look  at  me  now  —  for  yarn  and  yon  and  jom.  . 

- 

Tm  thinking  of  die  time  we  said  good-by: 

We  took  our  dinner  in  DovaTs  that  night, 

Just  fitde  Jacqacfine,  Lncette  and  I; 

We  tried  our  very  ntn>o«f  to  be  bright. 

We  langhrd.     And  yet  our  eyes,  they  weren't  gay. 

I  sooght  all  kinds  of  cheering  things  to  say. 

~  Don't  grieve,"  I  told  them.     "  Soon  the  time  will 

pass; 

My  next  permission  will  come  quickly  round; 
WeH  aH  meet  at  the  Gare  da  Montparnasse; 
Three  times  I've  come  already,  safe  and  sound." 
(But  oh,  I  thought,  it's  harder  every  time, 
After  a  home  that  seems  Eke  Paradise, 
To  go  back  to  the  venuui  and  the  sfime, 
The  weariness,  the  want;  the  sacrifice. 
"  Pray  God,"  I  said,  "  the  war  may  soon  be  done, 
But  no,  oh  never,  never  till  we've  won! "  ) 

Then  to  the  station  quietly  we  walked; 

I  had  my  rife  and  my  haversack, 

My  heavy  boots,  my  blankets  on  my  back; 

And  though  it  hurt  us,  cheerfully  we  talked. 

We  chatted  bravely  at  the  platform  gate. 

I  watched  the  dock.     My  train  must  go  at  eight. 

One  miflute  to  the  hour  ...  we  kissed  good-by, 


LES  GRJXDS  MUTILES  217 

Then,  oh,  they  both  broke  down,  with  piteous  ay. 
I  went.  .  .  .  Their  way  was  barred;  they  could  not 

piss. 

I  looked  back  as  the  train  began  to  start; 
Once  more  I  ran  with  anguish  at  my  heart 
And  through  the  bars  I  kissed  my  Htrle  lass.  .  . 

Three  years  have  gone;  they've  waited  day  by  day. 
I  never  came.     I  (fid  not  even  write. 
For  when  I  saw  my  face  was  such  a  sight 

•0 

I  thought  that  I  had  better  .  .  .  stay  away. 
And  so  I  took  the  name  of  one  who  died, 

--"endless  friend  who  perished  by  my  side. 
In  Prussian  prison  camps  three  years  of  hell 
I  kept  my  secret;  oh,  I  kept  it  well! 
And  now  I'm  free,  but  none  shall  ever  know; 
They  think  I  died  out  there  ...  it's  better  so. 

To-day  I  passed  my  wife  in  widow's  weeds. 

I  brushed  her  arm.     She  did  not  even  look. 

So  white,  so  pinched  her  face,,  my  heart  stiD  bleeds, 

And  at  die  touch  of  hen  oh.  how  I  shook! 

And  then  last  night  I  passed  the  window  where 

They  sat  together;  I  could  see  them  dear, 

The  lamplight  softly  gleaming  on  their  hair, 

And  all  die  room  so  foD  of  cozy  cheer. 

wife  was  sewing,  while  my  daughter  read; 
I  even  saw  my  portrait  OB  the  waH. 
I  wanted  to  rush  in,  to  tefl  them  au; 
And  then  I  cursed  myself:     ~  You're  dead,  you're 

dead!" 


218  LES  GRANDS  MU TILES 

God!  how  I  watched  them  from  the  darkness  there, 
Clutching  the  dripping  branches  of  a  tree, 
Peering  as  close  as  ever  I  might  dare, 
And  sobbing,  sobbing,  oh,  so  bitterly! 

But  no,  it's  folly;  and  I  mustn't  stay. 
To-morrow  I  am  going  far  away. 
I'll  find  a  ship  and  sail  before  the  mast; 
In  some  wild  land  I'll  bury  all  the  past. 
I'll  live  on  lonely  shores  and  there  forget, 
Or  tell  myself  that  there  has  never  been 
The  gay  and  tender  courage  of  Lucette, 
The  little  loving  arms  of  Jacqueline. 

A  man  lonely  upon  a  lonely  isle, 

Sometimes  I'll  look  towards  the  North  and  smile 

To  think  they're  happy,  and  they  both  believe 

I  died  for  France,  and  that  I  lie  at  rest; 

And  for  my  glory's  sake  they've  ceased  to  grieve, 

And  hold  my  memory  sacred.     Ah!  that's  best. 

And  in  that  thought  I'll  find  my  joy  and  peace 

As  there  alone  I  wait  the  Last  Release. 


L'ENFOI 

We've  finished  up  the  filthy  war; 
We've  won  what  we  were  fighting  for 
(Or  have  we?     I  don't  know). 
But  anyway  I  have  my  wish: 
I'm  back  upon  the  old  Boul'  Mich' , 
And  how  my  heart's  aglow! 
Though  in  my  coat's  an  empty  sleeve, 
Ah!  do  not  think  I  ever  grieve 
(The  pension  for  it,  I  believe, 
Will  keep  me  on  the  go). 

So  I'll  be  free  to  write  and  write, 

And  give  my  soul  to  sheer  delight, 

Till  joy  is  almost  pain; 

To  stand  aloof  and  watch  the  throng, 

And  worship  youth  and  sing  my  song 

Of  faith  and  hope  again; 

To  seek  for  beauty  everywhere, 

To  make  each  day  a  living  prayer 

That  life  may  not  be  vain. 

To  sing  of  things  that  comfort  me, 
The  joy  in  mother-eyes,  the  glee 
Of  little  ones  at  play; 
The  blessed  gentleness  of  trees, 
Of  old  men  dreaming  at  their  ease 
Soft  afternoons  away; 
Of  violets  and  swallows'  wings, 
219 


220  L'ENFOI 

Of  wondrous,  ordinary  things 
In  words  of  every  day. 

To  rhyme  of  rich  and  rainy  nights, 

When  like  a  legion  leap  the  lights 

And  take  the  town  with  gold; 

Of  taverns  quaint  where  poets  dream, 

Of  cafes  gaudily  a  gleam, 

And  vice  that's  overbold; 

Of  crystal  shimmer,  silver  sheen, 

Of  soft  and  soothing  nicotine, 

Of  wine  that's  rich  and  old, 

Of  gutters,  chimney^tops  and  stars, 

Of  apple-carts  and  motor-cars, 

The  sordid  and  sublime; 

Of  wealth  and  misery  that  meet 

In  every  great  and  little  street, 

Of  glory  and  of  grime; 

Of  all  the  living  tide  that  flows  — 

From  princes  down  to  puppet  shows  — 

/'//  make  my  humble  rhyme. 

So  if  you  like  the  sort  of  thing 

Of  which  I  also  ,like  to  sing, 

Just  give  my  stuff  a  look; 

And  if  you  don't,  nojiarm  is  done  — 

In  writing  it  I've  had  my  fun; 
Good  luck  to  you  and  every  one  — 
And  so 

Here  ends  my  book. 


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